


Trump Diet

by caloriebomb



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: American Sign Language, Belly Kink, Chubby Kink, Deaf Steve Rogers, Disabled Character, F/M, Feeding Kink, M/M, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Weight Gain, Weight Issues, chubby bucky, just no arm at all, volunteering, without the metal arm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-10-02 21:19:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10227641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caloriebomb/pseuds/caloriebomb
Summary: Donald Trump gets elected, and Bucky Barnes eats his feelings.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is your classic, way-too-long slow-burn Bucky-eats-himself-silly-and-gets-fat story, so WARNING for anyone not into chubby or feeding kink. WARNING too for anyone who might be triggered by mild humiliation and descriptions of arguably disordered overeating, or descriptions of panic attacks. 
> 
> And a warning for any possible right-wing readers: the politics in this peter out pretty quick, but still, I wouldn't recommend this story for any Trump regime supporters out there -- mostly because it would bring me deep sadness to cause you sexual pleasure of any kind. 
> 
> I saw [this amazing piece of fan art](http://img07.deviantart.net/b8fa/i/2014/137/9/4/commission___hipster_steve_rogers_by_batcii-d7inr8u.png) a while ago and I think that's where this Steve came from. 
> 
> Also, I want to say, I always read and cherish all your comments, I'm just terrible -- really terrible -- at replying. I'm sorry in advance, and please know how much I appreciate your responses. Despite my handy posting on this website, I'm actually kind of a luddite and find internet communication hard. It delights me to delight you, though, so thanks to anyone who reads and enjoys.

It was supposed to be a celebration.

Bucky wasn't what you might call “social,” at least not since his discharge two years ago, but he figured even a mild agoraphobe like himself could make an exception tonight of all nights, so he let Natasha drag him all the way to Bed-Stuy for a party at her co-worker Clint's apartment. Bucky had met Clint once in passing and remembered him as broad-shouldered, square-jawed, and monosyllabic, a kind of hyper-masculine trifecta that in no way prepared him for the extreme gayness of Clint's party guests – or, Bucky figured, “queer” was probably the better term, though he still uncomfortably associated the word with getting beat up in junior high, before he'd learned how to throw a punch. Everyone here had piercings and patches of their heads shaved and offered up their pronouns along with their names, and Bucky felt ugly and uptight in comparison, worried they could see the army in him still, the years of retro bullshit hetero posturing that hadn't quite loosed its grip on him. At least his hair was getting long.

“Relax,” Natasha said, elbowing him in his left side – easy to do without an arm in the way, and he scowled down at her. “And smile,” she said. “We're electing the first female president tonight!”

“Shoulda been Bernie,” Bucky said, just to get her goat. They were in Clint's busy kitchen surveying a truly impressive spread of snacks: boxes of pizza, buckets of fried chicken, a pan of nachos, a casserole labeled “vegan cheezy mac,” plus cookies, cupcakes, brownies, and an enormous cake with absolutely gorgeous pink frosting letters that said, to Bucky's amusement, “Fine Whatever.”

“Looks like you're not the only reluctant Hillary supporter,” Natasha said, following his gaze. “Clint's roommate probably made that. He's some kind of anarchist baker.”

“Made the brownies, too,” Clint said, materializing with a pair of beers. He tilted one in Bucky's direction, raising an eyebrow, and grinned when Bucky took it with a nod of thanks. Then, very loudly, Clint bellowed, “Yo, Marla, get Steve for me!”

Across the kitchen, Bucky saw a blue-haired girl thwack someone's thin flanneled shoulder, and a second later, Clint's roommate turned around and, at a gesture from Clint, headed towards them. Bucky only had a brief, surprised moment of thirsty appraisal – big black glasses, blond hair, cheekbones cut from god's own marble, small and fine-boned with wrists so slender Bucky thought he could fit both in his one hand – before Steve was right in front of them, looking expectantly at Clint from under thick, dark lashes. Bucky gulped at his beer. 

“They like your cake,” Clint said. He was moving his hands as he spoke, and it took Bucky a second to realize it must be sign language, Steve's eyes flicking from Clint's fingers to his face. He saw what he'd missed, at first: a pair of blue hearing aids, decidedly sparkly, like Steve's sparkly blue eyes. He turned away before Steve caught him staring, only to catch Steve's own eyes darting from Bucky's pinned-back left sleeve, and Bucky almost smiled. It was funny. 

Steve pushed up his glasses with the inside of his wrist, an elegant, subconscious gesture that weakened Bucky's knees, and said, “It's carrot cake. Seems healthy, but it's full of crap – like Hillary.” His voice was shockingly deep for such a small person, and mellow like good scotch, a slight Deaf accent rounding out the edges of his words. 

“Stevie here almost voted for Jill Stein,” Clint said.

“She's an idiot, too,” Steve grumbled. “Look, quit giving me shit, I voted for your girl, all right? Anything's better than that racist piece of small intestine with a spray tan.”

“It was supposed to say 'I'm With Her,'” Clint said, pointing back to the cake, and Steve followed his finger with an appraising look. 

“No one's even cut into it,” Steve said. “Someone's gotta take the first slice, or people will get shy.” He looked straight at Bucky. “What do you say?”

“Me?” Bucky said, startled and pleased to be addressed. Normally he stayed away from cake – stayed away from carbs and sugar in general, stuck to lean protein and unseasoned vegetables – but he wasn't going to say no to this cute guy. “Yeah, sure.”

With hands that seemed almost too large and strong for his body, Steve cut a huge corner slice and lifted it onto a paper plate, then offered it to Bucky with a fork and and a dimpled smile – a smile that receded as Bucky fumbled his beer bottle trying to take the plate one-handed. “Oh,” Steve said, pulling the plate back towards himself, his cheeks a little pink.

“He could eat it if we were sitting down,” Natasha said. “The first polls closed hours ago, we should go claim seats on the couch. Here, I'll carry that.”

“No, it's okay, I've got it,” Steve said. “I'll come sit with you guys.” He glanced up at Bucky again, and smiled for the first time, a shockingly sunny grin. “Natasha, you gonna introduce me?”

“Oh,” Nat said, following Steve as he led them into the living room, which was almost empty: most of the party was still clustered around the snacks. “This is my roommate, Bucky. Bucky, this is Steve.”

“Say that again?” Steve said, focused on Natasha's mouth. 

“Bucky,” she said clearly, but Steve shook his head in frustration. 

“Looks like you're saying Bucky,” he said, and Bucky laughed. Again, Steve's cheeks grew rosy, like a little doll. God, he was cute. “Fuck,” said Steve. “Is that right? Bucky? Did I just make fun of your name?”

“It's a weird one,” Bucky said, shrugging what was left of his bad shoulder. He lowered himself onto the couch and set his beer bottle down on the coffee table, eyeing the luscious slice of cake Steve was still holding. “Think I'm ready for that, now,” he said. 

He got the cake settled on the arm of the couch, and Natasha sat next to him. He felt a little jolt of disappointment that it wasn't Steve pressed up next to him, but that disappointment faded pretty quickly in the face of another, much greater disappointment – a disappointment that was much closer to despair.

The televised map of the United States was turning red. 

The party that had started out so cheerfully, people milling around and chatting and eating, soon grew nearly silent. Everyone was gathered around the television, huddled close together as if their proximity could protect them from what was happening. A person Bucky had never met was perched next to him on the arm of the chair, looming over him in a way that usually would make him unbearably anxious, and another stranger was seated on the floor and leaning back against his legs, and he didn't even care. 

There were a couple handles of vodka and tequila being passed around, and beer bottles were stacking up on all available surfaces, everyone trying to numb themselves against the truth – but Bucky found himself eating mindlessly instead. At some point Steve had hauled some snacks from the kitchen to the living room, and Bucky ate slice after slice of cake until his teeth were covered in a moss of sugar and his head was buzzing and he started feeling nauseous, unused to the wave of carbs and fat. 

“Can we turn off the closed captions?” Steve said at one point. “I don't even want to hear this shit.”

“You never liked Hillary!” accused the person sitting against Bucky's knees, swiveling to glare at Steve with tear-glazed eyes. “You almost didn't even vote!”

“I still don't like her!” Steve said. “But I – I thought she was going to win. I didn't... I wouldn't have... God, this is so fucked.”

Bucky hadn't liked Hillary much either – but, like Steve, he'd assumed she would win. It was only now that he realized he'd never once truly contemplated the thought of a Donald Trump presidency. Here he was: a poor, bi, disabled veteran sitting in a living room full of queers, some of them brown or black, some of them possibly undocumented, one of them even wearing a hijab, all of them now in actual, real danger. 

“Nat,” he mumbled. “Pass me a piece of pizza.”

She passed him two.

:::

Since being discharged, Bucky had tried to keep in shape. Dutifully, he plodded thrice weekly to the gym down the street and forced himself to spend some time on the treadmill, went through the weight machines, did enough one-armed push-ups to feel a decent burn, crunched and squatted and swiveled enough to keep a certain amount of definition in his muscles, and ate an extremely simple, boring diet of egg whites and chicken and spinach. 

He didn't do it out of pleasure – he'd always been bored by workouts, especially running, and he loved sugar more than practically anything on the planet – but rather out of a slightly desperate attempt to convince himself he was “keeping his shit together,” which he wasn't, not really. In fact, sometimes, his mouth filling with water as he passed a local bakery, he wondered if he stuck to his punishing diet as a way to punish himself for being such a fuck-up.

He got disability and had a hilariously depressing online job as a technical writer for a company that manufactured blenders, so sometimes the gym was the only time he left his and Natasha's tiny walk-up in Queens. She dragged him out when she could, but she was a bouncer and her hours were wonky – she was often asleep when Bucky was awake. Sometimes he'd even hide out silently in his room until he heard her leave for work, peeing in bottles and not eating, in an attempt to trick her into thinking he was out and about like a normal, fully-functioning human. It was pathetic, he knew that, but he didn't want her to feel responsible for him or worried about him, so it seemed best that he try and hide how antisocial he'd become – hide how often he was blindsided by debilitating panic, hide how his bed was his best friend and how the mere act of waking up and moving around in the world was nearly impossible these days. 

Now, though, everyone was depressed! If one good thing came out of Donald Trump's election, it was the feeling of camaraderie Bucky suddenly felt with every liberal creature in America. Not that he wanted anyone to feel as shitty as he himself was used to feeling, but it was almost nice, for once, to feel normal. It wasn't just him: Nobody wanted to get out of bed. Everyone was frantic with anxiety. People wept in the middle of the bodega, clutching bags of Doritos to their chests. Natasha herself, usually the most energetic person Bucky knew, spent all day Wednesday lying on the couch and watching videos of baby goats. 

She had a couple serendipitous nights off, and together she and Bucky threw themselves into wallowing like it was an Olympic sport. “We have a week,” she kept saying, “A week, and then we need to rally and start fighting,” but meanwhile she wore pajamas all day and ate popcorn for breakfast.

“The Donald Trump diet,” Natasha said morosely.

In the light of a Donald Trump presidency, Bucky's sad and desperate low-carb diet seemed an unnecessary, perhaps even disrespectful, self-imposed misery. Suddenly it seemed he had full license to go hog-wild – no one would judge him, no one would stop him. The fucking world was ending. 

So he spent that week eating. Accidentally at first, and then with gusto, with purpose, with apocalyptic joy. He ordered pizza twice a day, killed entire cheeseburgers in mere minutes, emptied boxes upon boxes of Kraft mac and cheese, ate an entire 12-pack of ramen, and swallowed his weight in ice cream. He went through liters of Coke, gallons of chocolate milk, several six-packs of fancy root beer. He did not visit the gym once. And why should he? His country – the country he'd fought for, bled for, lost an arm for – had gone off the deep end, and it broke his fucking heart. 

“Okay,” Natasha said, exactly one week after the election. It was 10am, and Bucky was slouched on the couch wrist-deep in a family-sized bucket of fried chicken. Natasha stood in front of him, hands on her hips, and said, “Our period of mourning is over. Time to get to work.”

“What do you mean, work?” Bucky said, rummaging around for another drumstick. “Thought you didn't have to be in 'til 7.”

“Political work,” Natasha said. “Clint's having a meeting at his house, so we're going to Bed-Stuy, baby. All his super-activist friends are gonna be there.”

“We're not super-activists,” Bucky pointed out.

“Not yet, we're not,” Natasha said.

“I just donated twenty bucks to Planned Parenthood,” Bucky said weakly. 

“And twenty more to KFC,” Natasha said, eyeing the bucket of greasy bones. “That doesn't count as breakfast, Barnes. If you won't come for the politics, come for the brunch. Clint said he'll have bagels, and Steve is making homemade croissants.”

Bucky slowly put down his bucket and wiped his hand on his black sweatpants. The thought of seeing Steve again sent a jolt of warmth through him – in all the emotional tumult of the party-turned-funeral he hadn't had another chance to talk to the guy, but the image of Steve's wide blue eyes and pretty, pouting face hadn't left him. Casually, he said, “Never had a homemade croissant.”

“So put on your big boy pants and let's get a move-on,” Nat said. 

Pulling up his jeans, Bucky realized he hadn't been out of sweatpants in seven whole days, and the denim felt uncomfortably constricting around his stomach, which was pretty full from his unnecessarily large breakfast of chicken. He fumbled the button closed with a bit of difficulty, taking comfort in the fact that he probably wasn't the only liberal who had to suck in a little to do up their pants. 

The Donald Trump diet, he thought to himself, and nearly smiled. 

:::

Steve was even cuter than Bucky remembered, his eyes even bluer, cheekbones even sharper. He answered the door in a soft white t-shirt and a pair of black pants that were rolled-up around his ankles but fit him perfectly everywhere else, and as he led them inside, Bucky thought how remarkable it was that such a skinny little guy could have such a great ass. Miraculous, really. 

“You're the first to get here,” Steve was saying. “Coffee? Bagel? Croissant?”

Bucky said yes to all of it, relieved to have a few minutes to decompress before the other guests arrived. Natasha wandered into the kitchen to look for coffee and Clint, and Bucky sat down on the couch, just where he'd sat during the election. The coffee table was spread with piles of bagels and glistening golden croissants and slabs of butter and cream cheese, and Steve perched on the armchair beside him, chin in hand. 

Bucky's heart was beating fast in Steve's bright-eyed presence, and he tried to think of something to say. He stuffed half a croissant in his mouth to stall, and the problem was immediately solved for him. “Holy jesus,” he said, around a delectable mouthful. “Goddamn. This is fucking delicious.”

“You're gonna have to swallow if you want me to understand you,” Steve said, laughing. “I'm good at baking, but hearing, not so much.”

Bucky swallowed. “Sorry,” he said, and raised his voice, a little self-consciously. “I said these are really good.”

“Yeah? I'm glad,” Steve said, rubbing the back of his neck. “It's my first time making them.”

“Aren't you gonna have any?” Bucky said. 

“Already had two,” Steve said, then pointed. “Those ones are chocolate, by the way.”

“Oh man,” Bucky said, grabbing for one, even though he wasn't exactly hungry. It was worth it, though, for another one of Steve's smiles.

“If you're Nat's roommate,” Steve said, after Bucky had all but decimated his second croissant, “How come I've never seen you around?”

“Uh,” Bucky said, and swallowed the last delicious bite. “Don't get out much, I guess. Work from home.”

“Doing what?” Steve said. 

Bucky twisted his mouth, embarrassed, and shrugged. “Boring copywrite stuff.”

“Oh, you're a writer?” Steve said with interest.

“I wish,” Bucky said. “It's advertising, basically, but shittier.” He fidgeted under Steve's attentive gaze and busied himself by reaching for a bagel, then loading up a knife with butter and slapping it down on in big chunks. One thing that was decidedly difficult with one hand was fucking spread anything. “What do you do?” he said. 

“I work at ASJ – Arts for Social Justice,” Steve said. “It's a nonprofit, I do mostly web design. I teach ASL some nights, too.” 

“ASJ, ASL,” Bucky said. 

“Lots of acronyms,” Steve agreed, looking amused. 

“I only know the A.S.L. that comes from AOL,” Bucky said. “Age, sex, location.”

“Went in a lot of chatrooms as a kid, huh?” Steve said, raising one eyebrow. 

“I had to learn about gay sex somehow,” Bucky said, and Steve let out a loud, wholehearted “HA!”

“That's not the kind of ASL I teach,” he said, still grinning, “just so we're clear. I teach this kind.” He'd started signing as he spoke, and Bucky, who'd always had a bit of a thing for nice hands even before he'd lost one of his own, wasn't unhappy for the excuse to stare at Steve's thick-knuckled, graceful fingers. 

Someone rang the doorbell then, and Steve got up to let a group of people in, a few of whom Bucky recognized from election night. He sank further into the couch cushions and concentrated on his bagel, which, on top of a bucket of fried chicken and two croissants was probably overkill, but he was glad to have something to do with his mouth that wasn't talking to strangers. His stomach felt a little tight and bloated but not necessarily uncomfortable, and he wasn't so full that he didn't help himself to a donut one of the new arrivals had brought.

The meeting had a big turnout, and it lasted a long time, nearly two hours. Natasha hadn't been kidding when she'd said there would be a lot of activists there, and a bunch of different people spoke about a bunch of different organizations, giving kind of an overview for people who might be interested in working with and volunteering with them. It was a lot of stimulation, and Bucky had some trouble concentrating – in part because he kept glancing over at Steve, who was either sitting in rapt attention or bustling around making sure everyone had enough to eat and drink. Bucky certainly had enough: he'd had a second donut, plus an apple fritter, and his not-uncomfortable fullness had suddenly morphed into pain. He thought longingly of his quiet room and his sweatpants. 

But one person in particular caught his attention – a trim black guy named Sam who worked at the VA and had one of the calmest demeanors Bucky had ever come across. He said they needed people specifically to help vets navigate their health insurance and medical costs – a field that Bucky was, unfortunately, something of a self-taught expert in. It'd been a few years, but he still remembered with sharp clarity how confused and lost he'd felt, home in the same world but in a different head, down an arm and up about a thousand panic attacks, not sure who to call or how to afford any of the physical and mental therapy he'd desperately needed. Not that he was a shining example of a success story... but at least he understood the channels he might go through to become one. 

When Sam passed around a clipboard to sign up, Bucky found himself writing down his name and email address almost without meaning to. His was the only name on there, he noticed, which didn't exactly surprise him – but it did surprise him to see Steve jot down his own name a minute later. 

Finally the meeting was over and everyone began to leave. Nat had disappeared somewhere to talk to a girl from SURJ, and Bucky waited impatiently for her on the couch, wanting nothing more than to be home and rubbing his overfull belly in peace. Across the room, Steve was talking to a good-looking guy in a very tight t-shirt and slightly out-of-date goatee, and while logically Bucky knew that Steve probably looked at everyone's mouth with such intensity, he couldn't help feeling jealous and morose. He was a fool to let himself crush like this, especially on someone as clearly popular as Steve, who could've probably had his pick of any cutie in the room. 

But then Steve was hugging the tight-shirted guy goodbye, and a second later he came over to sit next to Bucky on the couch. Bucky sat up a little straighter and tried to tighten up his stretched-out abs, but he was way too full and gave up almost instantly. 

“I saw you signed up to get trained in at the VA with Sam,” Steve said. 

“Yeah,” said Bucky. “I know a bit about that stuff already, so I thought...”

“You served, right?” Steve said, and after Bucky nodded, “I didn't, obviously – I mean, look at me, even if I weren't deaf they'd never have let me in – not that I ever wanted to try to – well, anyway, I'm not a vet, but I've helped Clint navigate that shit enough over the years, so I thought I might not be totally useless.”

“Clint was in the army?” Bucky said, surprised that it hadn't come up. 

“Yeah, a while ago,” Steve said. “That's how he fucked up his hearing. And how we met, actually – he took my ASL class like five years back. Anyway, Sam said there's a training next Wednesday at 3, or if you're busy Friday there's one next Friday, too...” Steve waited for a moment, then said, “I mean, if you want to go together.”

“Oh,” Bucky said, pulse rocketing. “Oh! Yeah, I... That'd be good. Uh, Wednesday.”

“There's a really good dumpling place right around the corner from Sam's VA, too,” Steve said, “if you wanted to maybe get lunch first...”

“Lunch, yeah, for sure,” Bucky said, maybe a little too fast. “Lunch would be, I mean, yeah, I'm gonna be hungry, I'm always hungry, so, yeah, lunch, great.” He was tripping over his own words but he couldn't help it, not with Steve squinting at his lips like that, not with his heart beating a million miles a minute. Steve was just being friendly, he told himself. It wasn't a date.

“It's a date,” Steve said, beaming.

:::

“James Barnes,” said Natasha on the Uber ride back to their apartment. “Did you or did you not score some hot little blond's number this afternoon?”

“What?” Bucky said, pretending not to understand, though he could still feel Steve's fingers where they'd brushed against his as he'd handed his phone over. 

“Don't give me that,” Natasha said. “I saw it with my own two eyes.”

“He's just friendly,” Bucky said, determinedly avoiding eye contact. “I don't – it's probably nothing.”

“Do you want it to be something?” Nat said, and Bucky shrugged, too superstitious to get his hopes up and verbalize how very much he did, in fact, want it to be something.

“You didn't tell me Clint was in the army,” he said, to change the subject. 

“What?” Nat said. “Oh, yeah, like ten years ago.”

“Steve said he messed up his hearing,” Bucky said. “But it seems like he hears okay?”

“He's got hearing aids, the little kind that blend in,” Nat said. “You'll find 'em if you're looking. He hears pretty well when they're in.”

“But Steve... Does Steve... I mean...”

“I don't know about Steve,” Natasha said primly. “You'll have to ask him yourself.” And then, at Bucky's exasperated look, she relented and said, “I mean, I know he hears some with his aids in, but not well. Mostly he reads lips.”

Unconsciously, Bucky touched his mouth. He needed to invest in some chapstick before next Wednesday.

:::

Bucky went back to the gym that week, but found himself eschewing the treadmill. Despite his best intentions, he hadn't shaken his post-election carbohydrate free-for-all, and just that morning had overdone it with breakfast a little – he'd met Natasha at a diner when she came off her night shift and had put away a stack of chocolate chip pancakes, a pile of bacon, a huge plate of cheesy hashbrowns, and a strawberry milkshake. The thought of jogging, of bouncing up and down like that, made him feel sick. So he dragged himself through the weight machines and knocked out fifty push-ups and called it a day, proud of himself for even getting there. 

He did the same a few days later – skipped the treadmill, hit the weights, again working around a stomach swollen full of breakfast, though at least he'd gotten in some protein this time, in the form of a five-egg omelette with three kinds of meat and about a pound of cheese. He'd had a big stack of toast along with it, but that was neither here nor there. 

He found he could lift heavier when he wasn't tired from running, and by the time he got back to his apartment to start working on his latest assignment, he'd worked up a bit of an appetite, and ordered a pizza although it was only 11am. 

Trump diet, he told himself, when the pizza was completely gone two hours later and he was rummaging around in his cupboards for the box of Oreos he knew was hiding there somewhere – but he knew he couldn't blame it on Donald Trump anymore. 

Truth was, there was something comforting about eating whatever the hell he wanted. Something kind of freeing. His diet had always been a rigidly maintained semblance of discipline, but it had been a mask for how truly out-of-control he felt most days – and he'd figured if he ever dropped that mask, all hell would break loose. But in fact the opposite was turning out to be true. He was eating high-calorie crap, yeah, but he found he was getting his work done faster than usual, and he'd left the apartment several times in the past week alone – and, fueled by Hostess cupcakes, he'd even managed to breathe his way through an extremely stressful phonecall to the voicemail of his senator's office, urging them to demand the release of The Cheeto's tax returns. 

Maybe, he thought, a little giddily, if he had enough brownie-power he could even go to a protest one of these days. 

But the mere thought of it nearly sent him running to his Xanax. 

Baby steps. 

:::

Wednesday came around both far too quickly and with agonizing slowness. On Tuesday, Bucky called Steve to firm up plans, and it had taken him nearly fifteen minutes (and half a pint of ice cream) to work up his courage to dial, so his heart plummeted when Steve didn't answer. He couldn't quite choke out a voicemail, so he put the phone down feeling shaky and disconsolate. But a second late it lit up with a text. 

_Hey! Can't really do phone so text is best for me :) Still down to meet up for lunch at 1 tomorrow before the training?_

Feeling completely stupid for having tried to call, Bucky typed out his answer. _Yeah for sure. Where_

Steve sent back a lightning-fast address, and Bucky managed the thumbs-up emoji, then dropped his phone like a hot potato and lunged back for his ice cream. He hadn't been on a date in over two years – if this was even a date. Probably it was just a super-chill one-on-one. He settled the pint of ice cream between his thighs to get some more leverage, and nudged his swollen stomach uncertainly with the end of his spoon. He'd eaten an entire package of spaghetti out of a mixing bowl that evening, covered in about a stick of butter and endless shakes of parmesan cheese, and he was feeling pretty bloated. His belly seemed rounder than usual, a taut drum that was nudging up against his loose Black Sabbath t-shirt, and he sucked on a spoonful of ice cream and thought about that goateed muscle-bound tight-shirt Steve had been talking to at the party. Was that the kind of guy Steve liked? Bucky was no slouch in the muscle department, but he'd always put on weight pretty quickly and got a little stocky if he let himself go for too long, and he'd been eating like a maniac for two weeks – it only stood to reason that he'd added a pound or two. 

Grimly, Bucky poked his gurgling belly again. He'd go easy tomorrow, he told himself. Skip breakfast, eat a decent, healthy lunch with Steve, have a fucking vegetable for dinner. 

First, though, he'd finish this ice cream. 

:::

The next morning, Bucky woke up early, wracked with nerves, and accidentally ate two peanut butter sandwiches and a piece of cold pizza. Then guzzled a can of Coke and a glass of chocolate milk and added a big bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch for good measure. 

He should've put his pants on before breakfast, he thought a few hours later, tugging unhappily on his zipper. Doing his pants button one-handed usually wasn't a big problem, but there was more space between his pants flap than he remembered, and he had to really suck it in to get everything done-up properly. His jeans felt so tight compared to his sweatpants, digging into his waist quite unpleasantly, and he chose one of his oldest, softest t-shirts to compensate, the silky fabric soothing against his stretched-out belly. He shrugged into a flannel and then his old green bomber jacket with the left sleeve turned neatly inside-out, and pulled a black beanie over his long hair. 

Then he carefully applied a smooth layer of chapstick.

He looked anxiously at his reflection in the mirror, turning this way and that. He'd shaved for the occasion, and half-he wished he hadn't – he looked so young and round-faced without his customary stubble, but the alternative was looking like himself: a scruffy, housebound, half-crazy vet with one arm, and that wouldn't do. He wanted to be someone Steve would like... But fucking Natasha refused to ask Clint who that was. Kept feeding him the bullshit “Be yourself” line. 

Bucky hadn't taken the subway alone in a while, and he remembered why as soon as he was on the train car, crammed in a tiny moving tinfoil box below the surface of the earth, trapped in a crowd of unpredictable strangers. There was nowhere to sit so he had to hang onto a strap to keep his balance, which left him horribly unprotected, his bad side completely exposed. Someone stumbled hard into him during a stop, a young woman with headphones who jostled right up against his body and pressed into his vulnerable side, and though he knew it was an accident he shoved her away a lot harder than he'd intended to and nearly knocked her down. 

“Jesus fucking christ,” she spat at him, regaining her balance, and he wished he could disappear. He saw other people looking at him now, and he ducked his head and stared determinedly down at his scuffed boots, taking deep breaths like he'd been taught, but he felt a little light-headed and his heart was beating unnaturally fast. Was he having a heart attack? His fingers felt tingly and his chest was starting to hurt and he was having trouble breathing and he was dizzy and nauseous which were all very clear signs of a heart attack – _and a panic attack,_ the logical part of his brain tried to say, but he felt in his bones that this time was different, this time it was the real thing, he was going to pass out right here on the train and if his heart didn't get him he'd be trampled to death by these indifferent strangers, and everything felt faraway and his pulse was roaring in his ears and people were really staring at him now and he couldn't regulate his breathing anymore and was starting to pant like a dog and the train groaned to a halt in the next station and the doors slid open and suddenly he was steamrolling his way through a crush of people and running up a flight of stairs and out into the air and then he was kneeling on the sidewalk and it was really cold. 

He crouched there for a while, palming the frigid concrete and trying to ground himself, trying to keep breathing, and slowly details began to come into focus: the hardened green gum right by his pinky, the swish of an overcoat as someone walked by, the painful pinch of his waistband and the salty smell of the hot dog stand on the corner. Nobody approached him, just circumvented him carefully in their pragmatic New York way, and for once he was grateful that he looked crazy. He stood up, still shaky, his fingers trembling perceptibly, and took a few more deep breaths before he thought to look at where he was. 

He'd gotten off three stops too early, and it'd be about a forty minute walk to where he was supposed to meet Steve – which meant he'd be at least a half an hour late. But there was no way he was getting back on the subway, and he was going out to lunch so he couldn't spend any extra cash on an Uber or a cab. Besides, he wasn't ready to try and talk to anybody yet, much less a guy he liked, and he needed a little fresh air to go the rest of the way towards calming him down. 

Fuck, he always managed to fucking ruin fucking everything. 

Feeling like shit, he texted Steve, _Got held up gonna be bout 30 min late, I'm really sorry you don't have to wait for me if you're hungry._

Steve's answer came quickly. _No prob there's always a wait at this place anyway. Don't rush :)_

Bucky stared down at the smiley face, trying to figure out if it was passive-aggressive or not. Was Steve pissed? Or was he really as chill as he seemed? 

“Hey buddy, what's it gonna be?”

Bucky jerked his head up from the phone, surprised. Without quite meaning to, he had drifted towards the warm smell of the hot dog stand, and the guy behind the counter was drumming his fingers impatiently. 

“Oh,” Bucky said. “Uh... Footlong, I guess.”

He needed energy for his walk, after all. It was cold, and Bucky devoured the hot dog in a few enormous bites so he could put his hand into the warm confines of his fleece-lined pocket, fingers closing automatically around his phone. He felt a lot calmer already, brought back by the greasy, familiar taste of the hot dog and the chilly air whipping at his face, and even though the streets were pretty crowded he didn't feel hemmed-in like he had in the subway. It was even nice to be out amongst humanity, separate but part of something, too, and the physical activity felt good. He needed it, he thought ruefully, if he was eating footlong hot dogs as appetizers. He was still really hungry, though, and he cautioned himself not to order too much at lunch, not to embarrass himself in front of Steve... Though, come to think of it, Steve had already seen him eat quite a lot and didn't seem phased by his big appetite. That was the baker in him, probably.

His phone buzzed suddenly, and when he saw Steve's name he was sure the text would say “Forget it, see you never,” but instead it said, _Got a table! What's your ETA?_

 _Bout 15 min,_ Bucky texted back. 

_The kitchen's taking awhile,_ Steve said. _Want me to order for you so it's ready when you get here?_

 _Sure!_ said Bucky, relieved at the thought of putting the decision into Steve's hands. No way could he embarrass himself now. _I eat literally everything._

 _Good to know,_ Steve texted back, and then nothing. Was that an innuendo? Bucky wondered, and then immediately chastised himself. No, Barnes, you're just a horny motherfucker who hasn't gotten laid in over two years.

Nevertheless, the thought spurred him to walk faster, and soon enough he saw the red-and-white awning Steve had described, and was hit with a waft of heavenly, salty, soy-scented grease. His mouth started watering immediately. He was so caught up in the delicious smell that the sight of the packed-full, steamy, tiny interior of the restaurant didn't freak him out as much as it might have. He hesitated for a moment in the doorway, though, nervous at the sudden rush of noise and the presence of so many people in such a small space, but then he caught sight of Steve sitting at a little table in the back, frowning down at a paperback and chewing on a straw. They'd only met twice, but for some reason, Bucky felt calmer just seeing him and his now-familiar black glasses, a little eye of quiet in a storm. 

Steve glanced up as Bucky approached, and gave him one of those delicious, sunny smiles. “Hi!” he said, putting down his book. 

“Sorry I'm late,” Bucky said, trying to struggle out of his jacket without elbowing the person at the next table in the back of the head. “There was a... delay.”

Steve nodded, still smiling, but didn't say anything, and Bucky managed to sit down without incident. On instinct he swiveled his chair sideways so the back was to the steamed-up window and he could see the rest of the restaurant, eyes on both exits. “I'm starving,” he said. “Could smell this place a block away.”

Steve nodded again, but there was something off about the accompanying smile this time. Bucky felt a pulse of nervous energy, and yanked the menu towards himself, anxiety suddenly kicking back up. “Uh, so, what'd you order?” he said, trying to fill the silence, and when he peeked up Steve was looking at him very intently. Bucky waited, tense, unsure of what was happening. 

But then Steve let out a whoosh of breath and said, “God, I'm sorry, but I haven't understood a word you've said.”

“Oh, shit,” Bucky said, and despite his guilt he laughed, the tension broken. “Shit, my bad. Uh, is this better?” He faced Steve directly, even though it meant turning his back on the door. 

“Yes!” Steve said. “Thanks. This place is so loud, I can't tell one sound from another.”

Bucky was about to answer when suddenly he saw a hand coming at him in his peripheral vision, and he jumped violently, arm flying up to block whoever was reaching for him – which turned out to be the waitress, trying to set down a ceramic cup, thankfully empty.

The waitress yelped and stepped backwards, nearly spilling the pot she held in her other hand. “I'm sorry, did you not want tea?” she squeaked. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Bucky said. “I didn't – yeah, yes, I'd love some tea.”

When the waitress had filled his cup and vanished, Bucky looked up at Steve, shamefaced and about to apologize. 

“Wanna switch seats?” Steve said, unperturbed.

“What?” Bucky said. “Oh – no, that's –”

But Steve was already getting up, and the truth was, Bucky _did_ want to switch seats, so he stood up and away from the table, letting Steve pass him in the narrow space between chairs. There was so little room that Steve had to squeeze by, pressed up against Bucky in much the same way the girl on the train had, but Bucky felt no fear this time, just an electric snap of pleasure at the contact, and the feel of Steve's slim, strong body sliding by his. Steve's elbow brushed the little swell of Bucky's stomach, and to Bucky's surprise it was this tiny touch that nearly sent him over the edge, his dick twitching and threatening to swell up in his too-tight jeans, so he sat down hastily and gulped at the boiling tea. Jesus, it had been too long.

“Better?” Steve said. 

“Yeah,” Bucky said, so relieved to have his back to the wall that he didn't even try and hide it. “Thanks, man.”

“Now you won't scare our waitress again,” Steve said. “Which is good, because she's about to become your best friend. Wait til you try this food.”

Bucky's stomach gave a rumble of anticipation. “What'd you get us?”

“Little bit of everything,” Steve shrugged, and a few minutes later Bucky realized how accurate that statement was. Once the waitress had set down the final dish of soy sauce, their table was positively crammed with plates and bowls and saucers, everything smelling so marvelous it made Bucky's head spin. 

And it tasted even better. Any pressure Bucky might have felt about carrying the conversation flew out the window, because Steve literally could not understand him when his mouth was full, and his mouth was never empty. Luckily, Steve was entertaining enough for both of them. He was a firecracker, full of passion and highly animated opinions, and Bucky found that he himself was more animated than usual – widening his eyes in disbelief at something Steve said or rolling them in commiseration, grinning widely around a mouthful of noodles and gesturing with his chopsticks as he made a point. Being with Steve felt shockingly comfortable; he felt like he didn't have to “perform” anything, could just react and act in a way that felt balanced and natural. 

And he didn't have to hide his voracious appetite. The second his plate was empty Steve would serve him something else, with the same gracious quality that Bucky had noticed watching him host at his own apartment. He piled Bucky's plate with noodles, spooned dumplings at him, nudged rice in his direction, urged him to take the last of the succulent pork belly that Bucky couldn't get enough of. Soon enough, Bucky's maybe-sort of-a little bit-too tight jeans felt absolutely-unequivocally-unbutton me now-tight, but everything was so damn good, and there was so much of everything, that Bucky didn't stop eating until the last plate had been licked clean. 

“God, I'm full,” Bucky groaned.

“Me too,” Steve said. “Ugh, what was I thinking? Now we have to sit in a meeting and pay attention.”

“I'm gonna go into a food coma and miss everything.”

“We'll have to take the training all over again,” Steve said. 

“At least I could tell the vets all about dumplings, though,” Bucky said. 

“Important information,” Steve agreed. 

The meeting, however, was anything but boring, despite Bucky's uncomfortably stuffed state. Sam was an engaging and informed facilitator, and Bucky wished he'd had someone like that on his side when he'd gotten out of the VA hospital. The would-be volunteers were a surprisingly diverse group, though it definitely swung male, and Bucky felt safe putting up his hand when Sam asked who had an interest in working with vets on LGBTQ-specific issues. Steve raised his hand, too, and gave Bucky a little half-grin. 

When it came time to sign up for volunteer shifts, Bucky screwed up his courage, took a deep breath, and said, “Hey Steve. Sometimes I need a little extra incentive to get out of the house, so... You wanna be my shift-buddy? It'd help keep me accountable if I knew I had... someone there for me.”

His reward was a dazzling smile. “I could be that someone,” Steve said. “Especially if we get dumplings first.”

“Obviously,” said Bucky.

:::

It was just lunch and one three-hour shift a week, but Bucky was embarrassed to admit how much it meant to him. He didn't try to get on the subway again, but budgeted for a one-way Uber and took the weekly hour and a half walk there at a leisurely pace, usually with a hot dog or two to keep him company and tide him over until he got to the dumpling restaurant, where Steve was always waiting, reading, chewing on his straw, beaming whenever he caught sight of Bucky. These lunches – that smile – were the best part of his week.

Talking with the vets and learning even more about the fucked-up insurance system was a drain on Bucky's system, but almost a good drain, like the kind he felt after a particularly heavy lifting session. It was hard work well done, and he had Steve and Sam there for support. Steve often brought in a tupperware full of baked goods – meant for their clients, but a lot of it ended up in Bucky's mouth as he processed paperwork or tried not to react to the injuries he often ended up hearing about, some of which hit a bit too close for comfort. He had to leave sometimes, hit the street for a few minutes of fresh air, but neither Sam nor Steve questioned his sudden absences. 

Steve, Bucky thought, was a natural. Despite his appearance – small, skinny, and obviously, blue-sparklingly deaf – he commanded a great deal of respect from everyone he encountered, Bucky included. Something about the forceful intensity of his personality coupled with his unwavering sense of goodness and rightness was indescribably calming, and even ultra-dominant types seemed to soften in his presence, looking at him like he was a leader.

Bucky was smitten. 

He took to watching one-handed sign language tutorials online at night, curled up in his bed with a box of cookies or a bag of chips, practicing secretly in between bites. His hunger for Steve only seemed to increase his hunger for food, and despite his nightly promises to cut back the next day, he was eating more than ever. He woke up each morning thinking only of breakfast, singleminded until he was chewing his first bite, and he went to sleep each night with his stomach packed so full it hurt. 

It was as if some strange reversal had happened – usually he felt out-of-control inside but appeared orderly in his everyday actions, but now that his overeating was getting out of control, inside he felt calmer and more together than he had in years. His panic attacks had abated, he was completing more work assignments at a faster rate, he was volunteering steadily, and one night he even accepted an invitation to go the bar with some vets he'd met at the VA. 

All the while, though, he would plow through bags of Lays on an already-full stomach, put away a pint of ice cream for an after-breakfast snack, eat a meatball sub and then lie to Natasha saying he hadn't had dinner so she wouldn't judge him when he ate two orders of Lo Mein and an order of General Tso's. He was used to trying to hide the signs of his disfunction, and so it was second nature to hoard the growing pile of fast-food boxes and wrappers in his bedroom, taking out the trash only when Natasha was at work so she wouldn't see evidence of the pizza he'd ordered at 3am, or the box of Hostess cupcakes he'd eaten before lunch. 

It wasn't just that he was embarrassed to be eating so much. That wasn't the only reason he was eating in secret. There was another reason, too, one he didn't even like to think about directly, because it was so weird. But when he overate... When his stomach was packed so full it throbbed, when he felt dizzy and heavy with an overload of calories... Well, other parts of him got full, too, and when he was alone, he could... take care of those parts.

Stop with the euphemisms, he told himself. Just admit it: you love eating til you're sick and then jerking off. 

There. There it was. Eating like this turned him the fuck on, for no reason he could explain. The more he ate, the better his orgasms, and for a guy whose libido had been finicky at best for the past few years, it was a pretty awesome feeling. 

So yeah, he hid how much he was eating... But he couldn't hide the effects. 

“Pants a little tight?” Natasha said archly. He'd just gotten back from his third shift at the VA, and, as was a recent habit, had unbuttoned his jeans the second he'd walked through the door, thumbing them open even as he headed into the kitchen to check the fridge. He hadn't noticed Nat perched at the kitchen table, watching him. 

He whirled around, red-faced. “Um,” he said.

“Want some?” she said, offering him the bag of corn chips she was eating, and, when he didn't move, “Don't worry, Clint told me Steve Rogers likes a little meat on his men.”

“Nat!” Bucky said, torn between annoyance and arousal. “You're an asshole, you know that?” But he took a handful of chips and began crunching them resentfully at her. “Did Clint really say that?”

“Yep,” Nat said, popping the P. “I finally did some digging for you, since you're too chicken to ask the guy out. Don't worry, I didn't give away your precious secret crush.”

Bucky reached for the package of Oreos he'd stashed on the top shelf, then hastily pulled his t-shirt down. It had ridden up a bit over his stomach, fully exposing his unbuttoned pants and the too-tight boxers beneath them, and he could feel Natasha looking. “I know I've put on a little weight,” he said defiantly. “It's the – the whole Trump thing, it's got me all out of whack.”

“You look good,” Nat said, shrugging, and then gave him a more serious look. “Whatever makes you happy, makes me happy – you know that, right?” she said. 

Bucky confusedly shoved an Oreo in his mouth. 

“Are you?” Nat pressed. “Happy?”

“I've been feeling better than I used to,” Bucky said, after he'd swallowed. He felt a little shy under her attention, the affection in her gaze. 

“I've noticed,” Nat said warmly. “You seem really – with-it.”

“There are still some things I... could work on,” he said, glancing down automatically at where his t-shirt was beginning to slope outwards.

“We've all got shit to work on,” Nat said. “I just want you to know I'm here for you, if you need to talk. You don't have to... um, you don't have to hide anything from me.”

“Thanks,” Bucky said, horribly awkward, totally touched. Clearly he hadn't been nearly as stealthy as he thought. Natasha was quiet, still looking at him with that uncharacteristic softness, and he said, “I'll be honest, then. I really wanna go to my room, take off my pants, and eat this entire package of Oreos. With peanut butter.”

“That would make you happy?” 

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“Godspeed,” she said, returning to her tortilla chips. “But remember, I'll be pissed if there are cookie crumbs in my Skippy.”


	2. Chapter 2

There were three downsides to hanging out with Bucky, Steve thought. 

One: He was constantly torn between wanting to talk with Bucky, and wanting to watch Bucky eat, two things which were unfortunately not compatible. Not yet, anyway – they'd been volunteering together for a month now, and Steve was beginning to get the hang of reading Bucky's lips even if they were involved in chewing, which they often were, so if the ambient noise was low and Bucky made a point of speaking loudly, sometimes Steve could patch together a sentence or two. Sometimes. #Goals.

Two: Bucky was putting on weight, and it was driving Steve absolutely insane. At first he'd thought he was imagining it, the ever-so-slight curve that was starting to show under Bucky's t-shirts, the little gathering of pudge that was playing peekaboo under Bucky's chin – maybe it was just Steve's kinky mind playing tricks on him, he'd thought... but now it was an absolute stone-cold fact. Bucky's jeans were objectively too tight, stretching a little over his ass and digging into his hips, and whenever he thought Steve wasn't looking he'd grimace and try to adjust them underneath what was suddenly the start of an actual belly, and yesterday Steve had caught him sneakily undoing his button, Lord have mercy. He was 100% adding pounds and Steve was 100% here for it.

But...

Three: Steve was pretty sure he'd been friend-zoned. 

He'd been into Bucky immediately, drawn to his obvious sweetness, his understated humor, his enticing contradiction of strength and vulnerability, and of course, his absurdly gorgeous face... and now that that gorgeous face was a little pudgier, well, Steve was basically gone, donezo, a note in the history books, _Here Lies Steve Rogers, Undone By an Undone Button_.

And the thing is, he'd thought Bucky was into him, too, at least at first. He'd been pretty sure their first lunch was a date, and a really good date, at that, and they'd gotten lunch every week since then... But it never went any further, and Bucky wasn't giving him any signals. Wasn't flirting – though he wasn't _not_ flirting, either, and sometimes he'd give Steve this _look_ , this totally intense, alert, full-body stare, full of spark and zing and hunger – almost like the way he looked at a full plate of dumplings – but then, in a blink, it'd be gone, Bucky would be looking down or away or at a Snickers bar and Steve would be left floundering again. 

_Maybe,_ Steve thought dreamily, _he'd notice me more if I dipped myself in chocolate._

At this very moment, Bucky was eating a huge peanut-butter brownie with great gusto, licking crumbs off his lips, fluttering those beautiful eyelashes as he munched, sucking the tips of his fingers to get all the chocolate off, and then – was he trying to murder Steve? – laying a palm across his stomach with a wince, scooting around in his chair trying to get comfortable in his tight pants, probably full not only from the two brownies he'd just eaten but from the frankly enormous lunch Steve had watched him put down three hours ago...

“Sorry?” Steve said, rousing himself. 

“Do I have chocolate on my face?” Bucky repeated.

“No, you're good,” Steve said, and, resigned to going straight to Hell, he pushed the tupperware container towards Bucky. “No one's gonna finish this last one before we leave. Have at it.”

Bucky's lips were parted, his longing clear, his fullness obvious. Steve wanted to climb onto his lap, rub his belly, and stuff that brownie right into his heavenly mouth. It was painful, literally painful, that he couldn't.

Bucky took the brownie with what looked like a heavy sigh, and Steve nearly wept. 

“What are you doing tomorrow night?” he blurted out. 

Bucky swallowed with some difficulty and said, “Nothing...?”

“You want to come over, watch a movie, get some takeout?” Steve said. 

Bucky blinked like a frightened bird, and for a moment Steve was certain he'd fucked it up, scared Bucky off, ruined whatever tiny chance he may have had, but then Bucky broke into a big, nervous smile. He had chocolate on one of his canine teeth. “That sounds really nice,” he said. “Takeout from where?”

:::

They decided on Thai, and Steve, not without some guilt, made sure to order the food before Bucky arrived – in part so he could pay, but mostly so he could be certain they'd have enough. “Enough” meaning, a totally obscene amount that he could watch Bucky struggle with and undoubtedly vanquish.

“Is this a date?” Clint asked curiously, surveying the piles of takeout Steve had spread on the living room coffee table.

“Good question,” Steve said. 

They always signed when it was just the two of them, and had done so since moving in together three years ago. It was one of the many reasons Steve adored Clint. Steve taught ASL and had plenty of Deaf friends, but the last time he'd spoken sign at home had been with his mother, who'd died when he was twenty. She'd sent him to an all-Deaf preschool and elementary school and spoken to him almost exclusively in ASL, and while he liked English just fine, it wasn't his native tongue. Being able to speak his own language in his own house meant more than he could say. 

“Looks like a date,” Clint said, indicating the food, and Steve blushed. Clint knew him too well. “Who's the lucky guy?”

“Natasha's roommate,” Steve said.

“I knew you were into him!” Clint said, fingers flying with excitement. “You kept giving him cake!”

Steve heard – or thought he heard – a telltale buzzing sound, but was so worked-up he had to glance at Clint for confirmation: yes, it was the doorbell. Bucky was here.

“Okay, make yourself scarce,” Steve said, and wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans before adding, “God, I feel like a teenager.”

Clint gave him a soft, measuring look. “You really like him, huh?”

“Anyone would,” Steve said. 

He really did feel about fourteen years old, stifling a nervous grin as he opened his door and then trying not to let his jaw drop when he saw how completely delectable Bucky looked, all wrapped up like candy in a fuzzy blue scarf, cheeks pink from the cold, eyes bright. 

Bucky untucked his chin from his scarf. “Hi,” he said, smiling. 

“Hi!” Steve said. “Come on in. The food just got here.”

Bucky followed him in, sniffing appreciatively. “You get pad thai?” he asked. 

“What am I, a monster?” Steve said. “Of course I got pad thai.”

Bucky grinned, unzipping his coat to reveal a sweater Steve had never seen before, soft and grey and expensive-looking – just about the nicest thing Steve had seen Bucky wear, yet, and his heart leapt in his chest. It _was_ a date! Was it? The sweater brought out Bucky's blue eyes and clung to his thick little belly, and Steve saw that his sides, usually covered by a flannel, were very clearly rounding out over his jeans. His wonderful, terrible, too-small jeans. Steve's mouth was literally watering. 

“Should I take my boots off?” Bucky said, or Steve was pretty sure he said, and he forced himself to drag his gaze up from Bucky's body to his mouth. Not that looking at Bucky's mouth was a hardship. 

“Yeah, why not,” Steve said, and got another treat when he saw Bucky's adorable little toes in their adorable little wool socks. A treat to see socks: that's how far gone he was. “Food's all in the living room,” he said, and didn't miss the way Bucky's eyes lit up when he saw the impressive spread Steve had ordered them. He went straight to the corner of the big couch, the same place he'd sat the last two times he'd been over, and Steve made a mental note of that. He had noticed that Bucky seemed to like routine and repetition. 

Nothing else was the same, though – the only other times Bucky had been here was with a bunch of other people, but now, it was just him and Steve. And about ten pounds of food. 

“You want a drink?” Steve said. “Beer? Soda?”

“A beer would be great,” Bucky said. He was already reaching for a plate, and Steve smiled to himself as he turned towards the kitchen. When he came back out with a couple beers, Bucky was putting the finishing touches on the sculptural masterpiece that was his overloaded plate. He was carefully balancing a skewer of beef satay atop an incredible mound of rice and curry and noodles, and Steve saw an empty skewer already sitting on a napkin in front of him. Bucky glanced up as Steve set down the bottle, his mouth full, and raised his open hand to his lips, and then away. 

“Look at you!” Steve said with pleasure. “Signing!”

“Hardly,” Bucky said, but a second later he signed, “Eat.”

Steve laughed. “You're a natural.”

Bucky settled his heavy plate on his knees and dug in, and Steve helped himself to a far less generous plateful, twirling noodles slowly around his fork while he watched Bucky plow a path through the rice. He couldn't stop himself from talking to Bucky, though, even if it meant that Bucky had to stop eating to answer him – his desire for Bucky's good company was even greater than his desire to watch Bucky decimate enough pad thai for three people, but luckily, the night was young, and there was time for both. Steve noticed that Bucky's plate never seemed to get empty: every time he managed to clear a space, he'd fill it immediately with more food, moving from pad thai to massaman curry to yellow curry to fried chicken wings and back to pad thai, everything supplemented with plenty of white rice. 

He was getting full: Steve could see it in the flush of his cheeks, how his speech patterns changed as he paused between words for little sips of air, the way his stomach was unmistakably rounder under that clinging sweater. He slowed down after a while, leaning back against the couch and wriggling uncomfortably, thumb reaching to skim his straining waistband, but he was still eating, a bite of chicken here, a forkful of noodles there, like he couldn't help himself. 

“What should we watch?” Steve said. “We've got Netflix, so the world is our oyster.”

“Nothing with explosions,” Bucky said, not meeting Steve's gaze, and Steve's heart got a little achy. 

“Noted,” he said lightly. 

They settled on Inside Out, which was, okay, a kid's movie, but they'd both heard really good things about it and neither of them were in the mood for anything serious... But Steve couldn't help noticing that they'd both steered very clear of any of the more romantic choices, which had him second-guessing Bucky's intentions yet again. You were supposed to watch romantic movies on a date... right? Steve couldn't remember the last time he'd actually done the dinner-and-a-movie thing. Or, as the kids said these days, Netflix and chill. 

It turned out to be a pretty good movie, but Steve missed whole chunks of it because he kept watching Bucky instead of the captions. Bucky, who had put his empty plate down with an air of finality, and not moments later was reaching for it again, wincing as he leaned over his full belly to dump the rest of the pad thai on there. 

The boy _could eat_. Steve knew this, but was still floored by Bucky's appetite every time. No wonder he was putting on weight – if you put food in front of him, he wouldn't stop until it was gone. The cartons on the table were almost all empty now, although there was still a bit of curry left at the bottom of one of them, and a couple spoonfuls of rice. It seemed perfectly natural to take Bucky's plate from his unresisting fingers and serve him the last of everything. 

Bucky said something mostly to himself that Steve didn't quite catch, but it sure looked like “Full,” and when he'd finally eaten absolutely fucking everything available, he sat back against the couch cushions and unabashedly cradled his swollen belly in his palm, thumb stroking soothing circles on the soft wool of his sweater. He looked dazed, lips parted, chest moving shallowly, stomach looking bloated and round. 

So Steve, because he was a sick, lizard-brained bastard, went to the kitchen and brought in a tray of chocolate chip cookies he'd baked that afternoon. He put two on a plate, and set the plate on Bucky's knee. Bucky smiled and immediately shoved a cookie into his mouth, giving an appreciative thumbs-up as he chewed. The next one disappeared just as quickly, and Steve put two more on his plate. This time Bucky hesitated, glancing at Steve before he ate his third cookie more slowly, then the fourth. He took the fifth and sixth himself and they went more slowly still, and by the time he was finished he looked truly wrecked, a fine mist of sweat on his forehead shining in the light from the TV screen, his breath obviously labored, almost horizontal with how low he'd sank into the cushions. His hand rested lightly on his stuffed stomach, giving it a few gentle pats every now and then. 

It was all Steve could do not to jump him. And any other date, he probably would have, or at least would have tried to hold his hand... But this was Bucky. Steve didn't want to scare him, and to his growing horror he was realizing that he didn't want to fuck up their friendship, either. He liked Bucky so damn much. So much it was frightening. It felt almost too late, like he should've made a move before all these feelings had ambushed him, making him second-guess every word, every action.

When the movie was over, they sat for a minute in the dark, Bucky's eyes shining at him. This was the moment. This was the time to move closer, to touch him, to kiss him, but Steve was frozen with indecision, with uncertainty. And after a while, Bucky reached up and turned on the lamp.

The light made them both blink, and Steve knew suddenly that he'd made a grave mistake. He should've made a move. That had been his opening, and he'd blown it. 

“Well,” Bucky said. “I think I learned a lot about my feelings from that movie.”

“Yeah?” Steve said, smiling despite his feelings of failure. 

“No,” Bucky admitted, and rubbed his stomach ruefully. “The only feeling I learned about tonight is _full._ ”

“I think that's a sensation, not a feeling,” Steve said.

“Those cookies were amazing,” Bucky said. 

“Take the rest home with you,” Steve said. “Here, I'll get you a tupperware.”

“No, don't,” Bucky said, but Steve was already standing. When he came back into the living room with the tupperware, Bucky was standing by the door, wrapping his scarf around his neck. 

“You're leaving?” Steve said, trying not to make it sound so forlorn.

“Well, yeah,” Bucky said, looking uncertain. “You said – you got me a tupperware.”

“And you thought that was my passive-aggressive way of kicking you out?” Steve said.

“Um. Yes?” Bucky said, with an embarrassed smile. “I already called my Uber.”

“I wasn't kicking you out,” Steve said. Again he had that horrible feeling of missed opportunity. God, Bucky was so damned hard to read! He piled the rest of the cookies into the tupperware and snapped on the lid, waited as Bucky zipped his jacket up over that lovely sweater, obviously tighter than it had been when he'd arrived, his movements slow and measured as if he was trying not to jostle his poor stuffed stomach too much. “Here,” Steve said, handing him the cookies.

“Thanks,” Bucky said, and for one second he looked at him with that intense, full-on hungry stare. Then he said, “I had a really good night,” and was out the door.

“Shit,” Steve signed furiously. “Shit, shit, shit.”

:::

“I blew it,” Bucky told Nat the next morning. “I ate too much and got confused and ran away and I blew it.”

“Okay,” Nat said. “Step away from the cookies and tell me what happened.”

Bucky took a big, sad bite. “Nothing,” he said. “Nothing happened.”

“Bucky, look, it's normal to be scared,” Nat said. “You're out of practice, you really like him, and you've... got some issues.”

“That's putting it nicely.”

“I mean, for one thing, you haven't been with anyone since you got hurt, have you?” 

Bucky ate another cookie instead of answering. 

“Steve likes you,” Natasha said gently. “He likes the whole package. He's not gonna care about your arm.”

“It's fucked-up looking,” Bucky mumbled.

“I know, I've seen it. You're still insanely hot.” And, to temper the compliment, “Been hitting the cookies pretty hard lately, but still hot.”

This pulled a smile out of him. He licked a smear of chocolate off his lips and reached for yet another cookie. His stomach was still tender and bloated from the night before, but he'd had five cookies already and a few glasses of milk and was feeling better, was settling into the comfortably-stuffed state he'd grown used to over the past few months. 

“Steve made these,” Bucky said. He had a sudden, vivid memory of Steve's pretty face in the half-light of the television, the hopeful way he'd kept offering Bucky more cookies. 

“Yeah,” Natasha said impatiently. “Because he likes you. Look, just because you got scared last night doesn't mean you'll get scared next time. And yes, there will be a next time. Don't write Steve Rogers off so easily.”

“It's not just the arm,” Bucky said.

“I know it's not,” Nat said, and suddenly, without warning, she leaned down to press a kiss to his forehead. “You're doing great, Buck,” she said. “Just stay the course. And gimme one of those before you eat them all.”

:::

Whatever Bucky had been worried about – that Steve would hate him, would ignore him, would give up on him – didn't happen. Instead, for better or for worse, absolutely nothing changed. When they met for their usual pre-shift lunch that Wednesday, Steve treated him just as he ever had, with the same sunny smile from a corner of “their” restaurant, and a plate of hot dumplings. 

What had changed, however, was that Bucky was wearing sweatpants in public.

That morning, as Bucky had gotten ready to head out to meet Steve, the moment had come. The official warning sign Bucky had subconsciously been waiting for, the definitive finish line in his post-election binge: he could not button his jeans. And when your pants don't fit, you have to diet. It was simple, heartbreaking math. 

Bucky had lain flat on his bed for a good fifteen minutes, trying desperately to get the button through that stupid little hole, but finally, out of breath and frustrated, he had to admit defeat. They had buttoned just yesterday! … Barely... But he'd made it work! It seemed so unfair, that a mere 24 hours (and a few pizzas) could be the deciding factor in whether or not his pants would fit. 

He'd stood up wearily from the bed and padded over to his closet, opening the door wide enough so he could see himself in the full-length mirror on the inside. He almost never looked in full-length mirrors, not if he could help it, so he didn't have a real clear picture of what he'd looked like before the election, but he knew his pants had fucking fit, and he knew his belly had been flat, and not gently curved like it was now. 

The first thing he noticed was that his loose Black Sabbath t-shirt was getting snug, which shocked him – he'd been so focused on the discomfort of his jeans, he hadn't paid any attention to his worn-in t-shirts. It was clinging to the slope of his belly, not pulled tight yet but definitely not hanging in the loose folds he remembered, and even face-on he could see the rounding of his stomach, how it had pushed out into the extra space of his shirt and settled there complacently, swelling out above the unzipped flaps of his jeans. He turned to the side and saw that it had started to jut out noticeably, a curved counterpoint to the curve of his ass, which also looked a little fatter. Even his hips had begun to bulge out slightly, gathering love handles where he'd never had them before.

He had hesitated, fingers curling in the hem of his shirt, and then, with a deep breath, he'd peeled it off. 

He never looked at himself shirtless, not if he could help it. Even in the shower he averted his gaze from his own body. His left shoulder was an inhuman wreck of pocked and grafted skin, all strange textures and unnatural pinks, and the damage spread across his upper chest and down his ribcage. The sight of his scars was terrible to him – not just because they were ugly, but because every time he looked at them he felt the heat, heard the roar of the explosion, smelled the antiseptic tang of the hospital. Looking at them in the mirror, he could feel light-headedness creeping up on him, the tunneling of his vision, the escalation of his heartbeat. 

He was distracted from panic, though, by the sight of his belly. And it really was a _belly,_ full and firm when he palmed it, but soft to the touch when he sank his fingers in. He pushed, watched the flesh give way, spring back. His chest looked bigger, too, though that might've been the heavier weights he'd been lifting – but no, his pecs were softer beneath his fingers, his hips doughier. The dark hair across his chest tapered into a happy-trail that had always led straight down, but its path was longer now, beginning to draw a semi-circle rather than a straight line.

“I've let myself go,” Bucky whispered to his reflection, and felt his cock stir as if in response to a lover's dirty talk. “Gotta be twenty, twenty-five pounds,” he told himself, dragging his fingers through that trail of dark hair, working his thumb beneath the waistband of his tight boxers. Without quite letting himself think about what he was doing, he shoved down his outgrown pants and boxers and let them pile around his ankles, angry red marks encircling his hips. He was getting hard, now, and he gave himself an experimental stroke, eyes locked on his own reflection, on the way his stomach pudged out as he leaned forward to fist himself in earnest. He leaned into his closet to grab the lotion on top of his bureau, slicking his hand with a few messy pumps and wrapping his fingers around himself again, thrusting his hips upwards to fuck his own fist. He imagined his firm little belly getting rounder so it would bounce in time to his rhythm, imagined the jiggle of his ass, the shake of his gut, imagined Steve Rogers straddling his lap and shoving homemade cookies in his face, imagined the painful stretch that came when he ate too much and imagined that same stretch in his ass as Steve pounded into him, his mouth still full of chocolate, Steve's strong hands on the fat of his waist – 

Jesusfuckingchrist.

Bucky slid to his knees, panting, head resting against the closet door, hand full of come, belly heaving. 

He was going to be late for lunch. 

:::

“Should we get another order of those pork buns?” Steve asked, forking a pile of noodles onto Bucky's place. “You went through them pretty quick, you must like them.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said breathlessly. He was already full, already having trouble taking a deep breath, his belly tight and aching, but it was so nice to be wearing his sweatpants and not worrying about the pain of his jeans, and his impromptu jerk-off session had left him ravenous. But no, he couldn't think of that – because if he did, he'd start thinking about all the food he'd already packed away, start thinking about how gluttonous he was and how pudgy he was getting and how Steve looked so damn gorgeous when he asked the waitress for more pork buns, and he needed to nip that train of thought right in the bud because he could not afford to spring a full-blown boner in the middle of a fucking public restaurant. 

As if he needed more psychological issues. What kind of crazy person _liked_ getting _fat_?

“Did you finish those cookies I sent you home with on Friday?” Steve asked. 

“Yeah,” Bucky said. “They were even better the next day.”

“It was fun having you over,” Steve said. “Maybe if you wanted, we could --”

But he was interrupted by the arrival of the waitress, and then distracted by a series of text messages, and Bucky painstakingly ate six pork buns dipped in chili oil and tried not to belch too obviously and drank the rest of Steve's abandoned Coke and never got a chance to say, “I want to, we can.”

:::

“Nat,” Bucky said, a few days later. “If a person gains, say, twenty-six pounds and can't button their pants... How many sizes up do you think they should buy?”

Nat peered at him over the top of her paperback. They were in the living room, Nat sprawled out on the couch reading with her feet tucked under Bucky's thigh, Bucky making his way through a bowl of macaroni and cheese.

“Hypothetically,” Bucky added, licking cheese sauce from his fork. 

“Well,” Nat said, putting down her book. “What size were this hypothetical person's hypothetical pants beforehand?”

“Oh, let's say... 30.”

“Hmm, okay... Well, it depends. Is this person going to continue eating entire family-size boxes of macaroni and cheese, right on top of two pieces of chocolate cake and a bag of Doritos?”

Bucky met her eyes. “Probably.”

“34,” Natasha said, returning to her book. “Give this person a little wiggle room, so their roommate doesn't get uncomfortable just looking at them.”

Bucky was, at that moment, leaning back to pull down the waistband of his sweats. “Wiggle room sounds good,” he said. 

:::

“You bulking?” someone asked Bucky at the gym, a few weeks later.

“Huh?” Bucky said, startled to be addressed. He looked up from the barbell he'd been curling, and found himself looking at someone he recognized: the goateed muscle-guy he'd seen Steve hugging a few months ago.

“Bulking,” the guy said, patting his flat stomach, abs clearly visible through his tight tank top, and laughed. “Guess not.”

“I'm definitely bulking,” Bucky said ruefully. “Probably not in the way you mean, though. More of an, um, accidental thing.”

“Rude of me to comment,” the guy said. “Was it rude? Sorry. I'm kind of a latecomer to this whole testosterone thing, still trying to figure out the best routine to get me _jacked_.”

“Uh,” Bucky said. “You look pretty jacked already.”

“I mean, Jesus, I've been eating steak every night and I don't gain a pound,” the guy said. “If that's not a miracle, I don't know what is. Become a man: best diet ever.” He gave Bucky an appraising up and down and said, “Well, maybe it's not a man-thing. Maybe it's a me-as-a-man thing. You're friends with Clint and Steve, right? I'm not making that up? Not running my mouth at some beefy transphobe by accident?”

“No, I am,” Bucky said, then, hastily, “Friends with Clint and Steve. Not... the other thing.”

“Tony,” said Tony, sticking out his hand, and Bucky shook it and said his own name, feeling gently stampeded. “For the record,” Tony said, “I think you've got a great body. I just thought I remembered there being... less of it.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, feeling his cheeks get hot. “I've put on a little weight.”

“Me, I want to be a solid wall of pure beef, you know what I'm saying?” Tony said. “Just – unf. All thick muscle, a neck the size of my head. I thought maybe if you were doing the bulk and cut thing, you'd have some tips.”

Bucky tapped the swell of belly that curved over the waist of his basketball shorts. His workout shirt was getting tight, and he knew the little dimple of his belly button was visible against the cloth. “This is mostly cookies,” he said. 

“You're putting on muscle, too, though,” Tony said. “Not that I've been, like, stalking you, I just can't help but notice that you're lifting pretty heavy. With one arm. Which is... fucking cool.”

Bucky shook his head, embarrassed but also pleased, because Tony was right, he had been lifting heavier, and it was kinda nice someone had noticed.

“I'm meeting our mutual friend after this,” Tony said. “Wee Steviekins. Taking him out to lunch, you should come with, we can talk getting _pumped_. We're going to a fancy steakhouse, you haven't lived until you've seen Steve versus Steak. And I bet you've got a pretty serious appetite, am I right? Love to see that in action. On me, I'm rich.”

Since he'd first bitten the bullet and hopped on the scale two weeks ago, Bucky had taken to weighing himself in the locker room every time he visited. Not only was it secretly, sinfully excellent spank-bank material, it was sort of fascinating to see the number tick steadily upwards – like, Oh hello, that's where those three quarter pounders and chicken nuggets went to. He'd put on nine pounds in those fourteen days, which had him at a grand total of 215 pounds (at least 225 if he had an arm, his brain said sadly). He'd been 180 before the election.

However, today Bucky eschewed his weigh-in and just concentrated on getting dressed. His new 34s were comfortable and looked pretty good, he thought, but he couldn't help biting his lip when he caught a glimpse of his reflection. It wasn't just his workout shirt that was showing his gain, it was all his shirts. This one, a red henley that had seen better days, was starting to wrinkle under his pecs and pull at his belly and thicker sides, doing nothing to hide an ounce of those 35 extra pounds. 

Logically, Bucky knew the extra weight was obvious, more obvious by the day. He could see it even in his face, in the new softness to his chin and jawline, the slight puff to his cheeks. But no one – except Nat – had said anything, and he usually managed to fool himself into thinking that no one really noticed. 

But Tony had blown that notion right out of the water. 

“There you are,” Tony greeted him, when Bucky came out of the locker room. “Let's get a move-on, Steve's already there.”

Next to trim Tony, Bucky felt _big_. He was uncomfortably aware of the way his jacket rubbed up and down against his belly as he walked, could feel his henley riding slowly upwards, sensed the gentle pull of his jeans seat on his growing ass. 

He felt chunky and uncomfortable... and turned-on. It was official: there was no way he could hide his weight gain. Even when he sucked in as much as he could, his belly pooched out in a soft bulge. Tony noticed... and Steve, Steve must have noticed, too. 

The thought made Bucky's mouth dry. 

Tony hadn't been lying: the steak house was fancy as hell, and Steve was seated at a corner table beneath an absurd chandelier, absorbed in the menu. He looked up as they approached the table, and when he saw Bucky his face fell open in clear surprise – and then lit up in a grin of pure pleasure. He had the fucking best facial expressions, and Bucky felt himself mirroring that happy smile, discomfort and confusion momentarily forgotten. 

“What are you doing here?” Steve beamed.

“Met Tony at the gym,” Bucky said, thudding down into a chair. “He invited me along.”

“We're gonna see who can eat the most steak,” Tony said.

“Bucky will destroy both of us,” Steve said, with what sounded like an air of pride. 

Bucky, very aware of his tight shirt and the way his belly was pushing out against it, scooted his chair in closer to the table in an effort to hide it. 

“May I start you gentlemen off with something to drink?” the white-shirted waiter said, materializing as if out of smoke. He added, obsequiously, “Good to see you again, Mr. Stark.”

“We'll take a bottle of the Sazarin Barbera,” Tony said. “And we know what we want to eat.”

“I haven't had a chance to--” Bucky said, reaching for the menu, but Tony batted his hand down. 

“We'll start with the fondue and the calamari, and then we'll each have a 20 ounce Waygu, medium rare, with mashed potatoes and that cauliflower gratin thing you do. Oh, and this guy should probably have a side of fettuccine alfredo.” He lightly backhanded Bucky's belly. “Better bring us some garlic bread, too.”

“Did he order anything green?” Steve asked Bucky, and Bucky shook his head.

“Mr. Grown-up will have some wilted spinach,” Tony said to the server, though he made sure to face Steve as he said it, and Steve rolled his eyes but nodded. “That'll be all,” Tony said, handing back the menu. “You're the best!”

“Look, I'm sorry about him,” Steve said, leaning conspiratorially towards Bucky and jerking his thumb in Tony's direction. “He makes my hearing aids for free, so I have to be nice to him.”

“You made those?” Bucky said. 

“Sure did,” Tony said. “But Stevie, you didn't hear me order. You shoulda heard that, I'm right here.”

“I wasn't paying attention,” Steve said. 

“What's the point of wearing those obscenely expensive gadgets if you don't pay attention?”

“Cause they look cute on me,” Steve said. 

“That, I cannot argue with.”

Bucky got the feeling they'd had this conversation many times before, and he turned his attention to the basket of garlic bread the waiter had just dropped off. He was pretty sure Tony and Steve were flirting; pretty sure that's what was going on. Tony was annoying, but he was oddly charming, too, charisma and a weird kindness pouring out of him in waves, and he was hot, rich, and built like a statue. The goatee was a little much, but Bucky gave Tony the benefit of the doubt and decided that if he was new to facial hair, he was probably just experimenting. Maybe. And he clearly liked Steve, took care of him. Why shouldn't they flirt? Bucky hoped they'd be very happy together. 

“Oops,” he said, looking up guiltily from the bread basket. There was, somehow, only one piece left.

“We'll split it,” Tony said, smiling at Steve, and Bucky cursed himself. 

However, despite his jealousy, lunch was actually pretty nice. Tony was funny as hell, and had some crazy stories from his “coke and hookers” days, and it was fun to drink extravagantly expensive wine at 2pm on someone else's dime. And the food was good. Great, actually. So great it was hard to keep himself in check, and he ate most of the calamari on his own, though Steve and Tony definitely helped with the fondue, which was a fucking aria of light, cheesy deliciousness. 

Their steaks, when they came, were absolutely perfect, and Bucky couldn't stifle the moan that escaped when he took his first bite. Tony gave him a satisfied look, and told Steve, “If you were paying attention with those magnificent machines, you'd get to hear your boy doing sex noises over his rare cow.”

“I heard it,” Steve said, face red.

Tony had not been lying: it was delightful to see Steve attack the 20-ounce steak, which was nearly as big as he was, and stupidly adorable how Steve pushed his plate away when the steak was barely half-gone, saying, “I can't, Tony, you know I can't.”

“You must!” Tony said, brandishing his steak knife.

“Can I phone a friend?” Steve said, and shoved his plate all the way over to Bucky's side of the table. “Buck, be a pal.”

“I've still got my work cut out for me over here,” Bucky said, indicating his own steak, which was considerably further along than Steve's – just a few bites left, really, and when Steve gave him a big, blue-eyed, pleading stare, he said, “Oh, all right,” and dragged the rest of Steve's steak onto his own plate and dug in. He was glad Tony had ordered him the side of fettuccine alfredo, because it was absolutely spectacular, but it was so rich and heavy that he had to pause for air after he'd cleaned his pasta dish. 

Here was where a normal person would stop eating, he thought, surveying the remaining few ounces of steak and Steve's leftover mashed potatoes. He was full – beyond full, honestly, his packed stomach beginning to pulse in time to his heart, his belly sticking out, his breath coming short, nine pounds in two weeks and more on the way... 

“C'mon,” Tony scoffed, seeing how he was struggling. “You don't pack on that kind of weight without pushing yourself a bit.”

“Tony!” Steve said, but he was laughing, a bit pink in the face. He glanced at Bucky, head cocked, as if to say: well, he's right. 

“35 pounds,” Bucky found himself saying. He was looking at Steve while he said it. “Since the election. Fucking Donald Trump, makes me eat all my feelings.”

“You must have a lot of feelings,” Tony said. 

“I do,” Bucky said, unable to look away from Steve's eyes, so blue behind those big glasses. Slowly, he reached for Steve's mashed potatoes, and started eating. 

:::

It was official. Bucky was getting truly chunky, and Steve was headed for an early grave. 

Seeing him eat, always way too much, always way past the obvious point of fullness, rewired Steve's entire brain. He became a living, breathing, Bucky-watching machine. It was wrong, he knew it was fucking wrong. For one thing, poor Bucky always looked so uncomfortable, his stomach swollen and tender under his too-small shirts, getting rounder practically by the hour as he ate, constantly. When he wasn't eating, he was drinking Coke or slurping these unbelievably frothy, sugary coffee drinks that came topped with mounds of quivering whipped cream. 

Steve only saw him once a week, or twice a week if he was lucky, so he had an easy metronome to clock Bucky's gain. Week by week, his clothes got tighter. A shirt that was beginning to wrinkle around the crest of his belly this week was pulled snug the next week, settled into the crease below his pecs and outlining his wide belly button. The week after that, it was starting to ride up. And the week after that, it started to show a little slice of belly every time Bucky moved his arms, so he always had to keep yanking it down impatiently. His pants, too, were getting snugger, gripping the curves of his luscious ass and emphasizing his wide love handles, the bit of chub that was growing on his lower back. And his perfect little face was getting cherubic and chunky, his chin doubling every time he spoke. 

He talked about it sometimes, which drove Steve mad. 

“I should not be eating this,” Bucky would say, digging into his third slice of cake. He nudged his belly, fork in hand. “I'm still so fucking full from lunch. Ugh.”

Or, “Oof, these pants are getting kinda tight.” Patting his stomach wryly and then reaching for a pork bun. “I wonder why.”

Drumming his fingers on his tummy, looking longingly at the pie Steve had brought: “Feel like I'm gonna pop after all those dumplings. But one slice won't hurt.” Then, a few minutes later, “Steve, will you pass me another piece of that? God, no wonder I'm getting so chubby.”

Usually 'hearing' in and of itself didn't do much for Steve – his aids helped with reading lips and alerted him to important ambient noise like doorbells or sirens, but all in all the actual act of hearing was something he could give or take, a useful tool but never a source of pleasure. Now, however, he gave himself headaches from trying to hear the noises Bucky made when he ate, the little burps and groans and growls that registered in Steve's weak ears as not much more than static. But oh, what beautiful static. He turned his hearing aids as high up as they would go and leaned in unobtrusively as Bucky dug his fingers into his stomach, trying to digest, not noticing that Steve was straining desperately to hear him muttering to himself, “Fuck, ugh. God.”

Although they'd hung out outside of volunteering, they hadn't been one-on-one again, at least not at night, in a date-y situation. Steve was too nervous to ask Bucky again, and Bucky, well... he had his own social shit to work out. He seemed to be going out more, though, had gotten friendly with a few of the vets and apparently hit the bars with them a couple times, and Tony said they'd started getting a snack together after lifting at the gym. 

“And by snack,” Tony added, “I mean I'll have a yogurt and he'll have a cheeseburger and a banana split. Oh, and he thinks we're screwing, by the way.”

“You and me?” Steve said, nearly dropping his drink in surprise. They were at a happy hour at some dumb swanky hotel because Tony was in love with the bartender – or, “Mixologist,” as she said, half-joking, half-not. She was getting her PhD in physics, apparently, and was just about the only person Steve had ever met who could render Tony speechless. “Tony, you told him we're not, right?”

“Why bother?” Tony said. “No, this is good, make him jealous, he'll love it.”

“I don't want to make him jealous,” Steve said. “I want to make him...”

“Come?”

“Happy,” Steve finished. “But yeah. What you said, too.”

“God, you're a sap,” Tony said, and turned to signal the bartender.

:::

To complicate everything, their roommates started fucking. 

Steve woke up one Sunday morning and found Natasha in his kitchen, in nothing but a sports bra and a pair of Clint's boxers. She was perched on the countertop like she'd been there a million times, drinking coffee out of Steve's favorite coffee mug. Clint was sitting at the kitchen table and staring at her like she'd hung the moon. 

“Well, hello,” Steve said, looking from Natasha to his roommate. 

“We made love all night,” Clint signed. And before Steve could respond, he added, “Natasha's talking to you.”

Steve glanced over at her, but Clint reached out and tapped his hand to get his attention again. He spoke out loud while he signed this time. “She thinks we should text Bucky and make him come get brunch with us.”

Steve looked back to Natasha, who was grinning. “Bucky loves brunch,” she said. 

“And you love Bucky,” Clint signed, before Steve could bat his hands down. He hoped to god Bucky never found out that the name-sign they used was a modification on the word “Cute.” 

Natasha must have said something else, because Clint spoke out loud again, in her direction. “Yeah, eleven sounds good.” To Steve he said, “Can you be ready in an hour?”

“Sure can,” Steve said, and then, to Natasha, “Are you gonna text Bucky, or should I?”

“Already did,” she said. “He requested we go somewhere with waffles.”

“Waffles it is,” Steve said happily.

Bucky came into the restaurant a little later than eleven, looking sleepy and grumpy and rumpled and toe-curlingly adorable. And big. His jacket was unzipped and his belly mounded out between the flaps, the obvious shadow of his belly button leading the way. Steve slid out of the booth so Bucky could have the corner seat, knowing that he'd rather have the side with his missing arm facing Steve rather than the restaurant at large, and Bucky gave him a nod of thanks, wriggling out of his jacket and dumping it into the booth between them. He yawned hugely, chin doubling. “Coffee?” he said. 

“On its way,” Natasha said. “You've got a little something,” she added, and sure enough, Bucky had what looked like powdered sugar clinging to the stubble around his mouth. 

“Oh,” he said, swiping at it. “Stopped for a couple donuts. This place definitely has waffles, right? I dreamed about them last night, woke up jonesing.” 

“The strawberry waffle is awesome here,” Steve said. “Comes with this chocolate whipped cream that's just amazing, I don't know how they do it. That's what I always get.”

“I'll get something different, then,” Bucky said, reaching for the menu. “Cause let's face it, I'm gonna be finishing yours.”

He ended up ordering two waffles: A banana toffee waffle covered in thick toffee syrup and whipped cream, and a savory cheddar waffle with fried chicken and bacon. “I guess I'll have two eggs with that, too, and a side of sausage,” Bucky said, closing his menu. “And --” something Steve didn't catch. Despite himself, he glanced at Clint questioningly. 

“Strawberry milkshake,” Clint signed, grinning. 

Steve did pretty well in multi-person conversations, usually – even if he didn't get every word that was said, he could fake it with the best of them. The truth was, though, talking with more than two other people tired him out a little. His aids let him hear enough to know when someone was speaking, but he still didn't catch much if he wasn't looking at their mouths, so a lot of his time was spent swiveling his head back and forth like an owl. Clint was well aware of this, and had gotten into the habit of casual interpretation – not only did he sign when he spoke, but he signed while Nat and Bucky were speaking, too, something Steve usually appreciated. 

Today, however, the added commentary was almost not worth the convenience.

“God, I'm hungry,” Bucky said, arching his back a little and lazily scratching the plump curve below his belly button. 

“Hungry for Steve,” signed Clint. Aloud, “Bucky, I like your shirt.”

“This?” Bucky said doubtfully. It was a worn-out Black Sabbath t-shirt Steve had seen him wear many times, and he got a little thrill – as Clint had no doubt intended – when he thought about how loose it'd been last November. Now, it was stretched snugly across the soft round ball of Bucky's belly, wrinkling around his chest and creeping upwards if Bucky moved around too much. Bucky had his customary flannel shirt over it, but it was late March and the weather was getting warmer and Steve couldn't wait for the day he got to see Bucky in just a t-shirt – he could tell he was getting broader in the back from the way the flannel was stretching across his shoulders and in the sleeve. “I've had this shirt since I was eighteen,” Bucky said. “Natasha probably remembers.”

“Seventeen,” Nat said. “We were juniors. Shit, that thing is ten years old? Makes me feel ancient.”

“How does it make _you_ feel?” Clint signed at Steve. 

Hot and fucking bothered, was the answer, but Steve kept that to himself. And they were all distracted by the arrival of their food, Steve doubly distracted by the visual delight that was Bucky's three-plate meal compared to their own single-plate breakfasts – not to mention the enormous milkshake that came with a metal cup full of extras. There was a moment where they all had to try and arrange everything to give Bucky enough room, and for Steve it was an almost erotic experience, moving his coffee mug out of the way so Bucky could have easy access to his shake. 

“Wow,” Bucky said, ruefully. “Guess nobody needs to wonder how I've packed this on, huh?” He jostled his belly and shook his head. 

“Did you just come?” Clint signed. 

“You're gonna get smacked,” Steve signed furiously.

“No,” Clint signed, “I'm gonna get laid,” and put his arm around Natasha's shoulder. 

“Get off,” she said, and Clint instantly withdrew his arm. Steve grinned. 

Bucky, in the interest of making more space at the table, or so he said, polished off his first waffle in almost record time, nothing left but the breastbone and bare drumstick of his fried chicken, and stacked his fresh plate on top of the empty one. The level in his milkshake was receding quickly, too, and soon enough he was pouring the excess from the metal cup into the glass. He tucked neatly into his sweet waffle, alternating it with bites of egg and sausage, and then came Steve's favorite part.

The slowdown. 

The milkshake was gone, the eggs and sausage had disappeared, he'd eaten Natasha's stack of buttered toast, and his own second waffle was just a few sticky bites left in a puddle of toffee goo. Everyone else had finished eating, and were just drinking coffee and chatting, and meanwhile Bucky had begun to struggle. 

First sign was the arching of the back, the wiggle side-to-side, trying in vain to get comfortable with a stomach that was too full to let him. Then came the touches – the little, light nudges to his belly, the way his hand would dip surreptitiously under the table to press in on his bloated tummy. Then the pointless waistband adjustment, running his thumb between the denim and his skin, trying to get his belt buckle out of the way. It was too loud in the restaurant for Steve to pick up well on any little noises, but he could see Bucky's lips pursing in a hard puff of breath, his nostrils flaring as he shoved in his last mouthful, and this was Steve's cue.

“Here,” he said, pushing his own plate over. He'd eaten even less than usual, only one single half, and the rest of his waffle was waiting, covered in syrupy strawberries and the still-towering pile of chocolate whipped cream. 

“Fuck, Steve,” Bucky complained. 

“Oh, and here's some extra syrup,” Steve said. 

Dutifully, Bucky took Steve's plate and put it on top of the stack of the empty two he'd already amassed, and took a moment to sit back in his booth, a loosely-curled fist resting on the firm round shelf that was starting to develop beneath his pecs. He was noticeably rounder than he'd been when he'd come in, and Steve could see a little peek of bloated tummy beneath the hem of his straining t-shirt. Bucky smoothed his thumb over the hollow of his belly button, and dug back into Steve's waffle. 

“Shouldn't have had those donuts on the way here,” he said, beneath mouthfuls.

“Want my leftover hashbrowns?” Clint said brightly. 

“Yeah, give 'em here,” Bucky said, and didn't pause, his fork going straight from his mouth to the new plate of food. “Christ, I'm really getting full.”

Steve was practically squirming in his seat, and so was Bucky, though it seemed for different reasons. Bucky was trying to find some semblance of comfort, hitching his hips backwards and then forwards, leaning over his food, leaning away from it, pausing often to press a hand to his stomach and take a difficult breath. When he'd finally licked the last bite from his fork, he slumped backward against the booth and slapped an open palm over his navel, the most swollen part of his stomach. 

“Food's good here, right?” Steve couldn't help but say. 

“Fucking delicious,” Bucky said, fingers digging into his bloated flesh. His eyes were half-closed. “Mighta overdone it, though. Feel like I'm about to pop.”

“Looks like it,” Nat said, and Bucky opened his eyes enough to look down at himself, as if remembering that he was in public. His chin was nestled into the softness that had blanketed his jaw, and for a moment it looked like he was trying to suck in his belly, but quickly gave up, letting it settle back out. 

“Steve, pass the cream,” he said. “Coffee's supposed to settle your stomach, right?”

“Not with that much sugar in it,” Natasha said, as Bucky dumped three packets in. “You're going to be wired. Got anything going on the rest of the day?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said. “Lie on the couch and digest. Fuck, I am not looking forward to the ride home.”

“You should come back to our place,” Steve said. “It's only a block away. We can... well, I have some work to do, actually, but you're welcome to veg out for as long as you want.”

“Really?” Bucky said. 

“Of course,” Steve said. “I can make another pot of coffee, or we have some good herbal tea.”

“Me and Clint have to meet some friends,” Natasha announced, “So we'll leave you guys here.” She was already shrugging on her jacket.

“We're gonna go to her place and bang,” Clint signed. Out loud, he said, “This was fun. We should double date more often.”

Steve winced, glancing at Bucky to see if he'd clocked that phrase, and thought he saw a slight flush to Bucky's cheeks as he stared perhaps a bit too fixedly into his coffee cup... But that was probably from overeating. 

Back at Steve's apartment, Bucky headed immediately to the couch, where he slouched amongst the cushions in his usual corner seat and tugged his t-shirt down – but not before Steve caught a glimpse of dark hair leading downwards. Bucky slung an arm protectively across his bloated tummy, and the shirt rose right back up. 

“Feel free to watch TV or whatever,” Steve said, gesturing to the array of remotes on the coffee table. “Do you want some coffee or tea?”

“Are you gonna have any?” Bucky said.

“I might drink some tea.”

“Then I'll have tea, too,” Bucky said. “What kind of work do you have to do?”

“Oh, a bunch of dumb coding,” Steve said. “Mindless but detail-oriented, you know?”

“Can you do it in here, with me?” Bucky said, looking at him with big eyes. “I won't watch TV or distract you or anything. Just want some human company.”

“Of course,” Steve said, warmth spreading through him. Soon enough he was settled next to Bucky on the couch with a pot of tea and his laptop, and Bucky was pressing his steaming mug against the round side of his belly, rolling it carefully across his stretched-out belly button. 

“You're gonna burn yourself,” Steve warned, though his fingers were twitching with how badly he wished he were that tea mug.

“No, it feels good,” Bucky said, and looked a little embarrassed. “Since I... uh, since I started puting on this extra weight, my skin's felt really tight down here, kind of itchy. Heat helps.” Then, “Fuck, sorry, that was gross. You don't wanna hear about that shit.”

“It's not gross,” Steve said, maybe too fast. 

“I just, it's not always super comfortable,” Bucky said, shifting his hips a little like he was trying to re-situate his belly. “This thing is getting kinda heavy, you know?” He looked Steve up and down with some amusement, and also, Steve thought, some bitterness. “No, you definitely don't know.”

“I wish I knew,” Steve blurted out. “I've always hated being so fucking skinny, I'd do anything to gain a little weight, it just – I've tried before, and it doesn't happen. I used to make myself sick in high school, eating chocolate bars until I threw up, but no, I'm still just a scrawny little toothpick.”

“But you – you look great,” Bucky said. 

“Well, so do you,” Steve said, and there it was, that fucking _look_ Bucky gave him sometimes, like he was eating him with his eyes. “You look really great,” Steve said, and swallowed hard.

“I've gained more than 40 pounds, Steve,” Bucky said. “I do not look 'great.' I look fucking fat.”

“Those two things aren't mutually exclusive,” Steve said defiantly. “You were gorgeous when I met you, and you're even more gorgeous now.”

As soon as the words left his lips, Steve knew he'd gone too far, been too honest. But Bucky didn't turn away. 

“You think I'm gorgeous?” Bucky said. The corner of his mouth quirked up a little. 

Fuck it. “Yeah,” Steve said. “Like, distractingly gorgeous. Like, wake up with you on my mind, think about you all day, dream about you all night, gorgeous.”

Slowly, Bucky leaned forward to put his cup of tea on the coffee table. He winced a little as he bent over his stuffed belly, but when he sat up his expression was nothing but hot coal, smoldering like something had been kindled behind his eyes. Nobody had ever looked at Steve like that before, with that much open desire, and his breath caught in his throat. 

“Come here,” Bucky said, and Steve shoved his laptop aside and moved down the couch until he was mere inches from Bucky's bad left side. Bucky didn't move, but he didn't take his eyes off Steve, either. Slowly, Steve closed the gap between them until he was pressed right up against Bucky's body, tucked beneath the stump of his left shoulder. He could feel the swell of Bucky's pudgy hip against his own, could feel his ribs move with his fast breath, and when he reached up to put his hand on Bucky's chest, he could feel the rapid beat of his pounding heart. Still moving slowly, he dragged his hand down Bucky's chest until it was resting right on the roundest part of his taut belly. He paused there for a moment, savoring the warm, packed feel of it, and then he let his hand drop further, to right below Bucky's belly button where the skin was softer, almost doughy – and then he _squeezed_.

Bucky let out a groan so loud Steve heard it with no trouble, and his hips stuttered forward, as if pushing his belly more firmly into Steve's hand.

“In case it wasn't clear,” Steve said, squeezing again, “I'm fucking crazy about this.”

“I have a really huge crush on you,” Bucky said. 

“What are you gonna do about it?” Steve said, and suddenly Bucky's mouth was on his, his perfect lips opening on Steve's in a kiss that was both hard and soft, firm and yielding like Bucky himself, and his hand came up to touch Steve's cheek. For a moment it was all Steve wanted, all he needed, to be kissed like this, with such total control and permission, Bucky turning just enough that his belly pressed into Steve's side, Steve's hands gripping perfect handfuls of pudge on his belly and hip – but as the kiss deepened Steve craved more contact, more, and without releasing Bucky's mouth he eased himself up until he was straddling Bucky's body, knees on either side of him, leaned forward until that growing belly was smushed up between them and if Steve moved just right he could buck his hips up onto it. He could feel Bucky panting into his mouth, and this was heaven, there was nothing better than kissing Bucky, and for a long, long time they made out like that, grinding against one another with no real urgency, Steve breaking off every so often to suck in a mouthful of the chub at Bucky's jawline, biting down slightly just to feel Bucky writhe beneath him, one of his hands always on Bucky's stomach, sneaking its way up Bucky's t-shirt and cupping the roundness of it, finding a crease on Bucky's side where his love handle was beginning to really grow, running his fingers across the light dusting of fuzz that trailed down from his belly button. 

They kissed for maybe an hour, maybe a week, kissed so long that Steve's lips were sore and his whole body felt brainless and boneless from tension and pleasure. And then, slowly, they came to a natural stop, and Steve looked down on Bucky's beautiful face and gave him one last kiss on the corner of his mouth. 

“God,” Bucky said, head thumping back against the cushions. He threw his hand up over his eyes. “You're so fucking cute,” he said. “But I...”

Steve's blood turned to ice in his veins. 

“I've got some, um, some... I'm not... I need to go slow, okay?” Bucky said, and Steve's heart started beating again.

“Slow, we can do slow,” Steve said. “You mean, like, no more kissing slow, or...?”

“No!” Bucky said, hand jerking away from his eyes. “No, kissing is good. It's other stuff that I might... need a little time with.”

“Buck, there's no hurry for anything,” Steve said. 

“I don't want you to – I mean, that got me pretty – we're both...” he gestured downward, where they were both clearly, unmistakably aroused. “But I don't think I can --”

“Bucky,” Steve said, taking Bucky's chubby cheeks in his hands. “Just 'cause I've got a boner for you doesn't mean I'm expecting you to put out.”

Bucky laughed a little. “I mean, it's not just you,” he said. “I'm, well... yeah. It's not that. It's... other stuff.”

“Straight up, I'm super into you,” Steve said. “I'll take whatever I can get, and I'll wait for whatever you need me to. Okay? And if it never happens, well...” he swallowed. “That's okay, too.”

“Okay,” Bucky said, and for good measure, Steve pressed another kiss to his lips. When he pulled back, Bucky was smiling, so mission accomplished. 

Carefully, he climbed off of Bucky and stood up, taking in the pretty picture. Bucky's long hair was rumpled, his lips were pink and kiss-swollen, and his shirt had rucked up nearly to his belly button, half of it caught in the roll at his hip. A little purple stretchmark was tracing a path across the curve of his underbelly, and Steve wondered, mouth watering, where else he might have such marks. He'd gained enough weight that his belly covered his belt buckle completely. 

Best of all, Bucky didn't pull down his shirt. He stretched, yawning, and let Steve look his fill. 

“I really do have to work,” Steve said. “I'm on this fucking deadline. But you're gonna stay, right? You're not going anywhere?”

“Nowhere,” Bucky said. 

“Our tea got cold,” Steve said, marveling. “I'll go make us a fresh pot.”

While the water boiled Steve dithered in front of the fridge, eyeing the 6-pack of chocolate pudding he'd made fun of Clint for buying, and before he could stop himself he tore three from their packaging and dumped them all into a bowl, then garnished it with two chocolate chip cookies and a tower of whipped cream. He knew Bucky had a sweet tooth the size of Alaska, and no matter how full he was, he couldn't resist chocolate. And no matter how full Bucky was, Steve couldn't resist feeding him more. Was that so wrong? 

Bucky seemed to be dozing when Steve came back into the room with the tea and bowl of pudding, but he cracked an eye as Steve sat down beside him. 

“Snack?” Steve said, and held out the bowl until Bucky took it. 

“Whassit?” Bucky said muzzily. Then, more alert, “Pudding?”

“And a couple cookies,” Steve said. 

“Jesus,” Bucky said, but he was getting himself up onto his elbow, trying to hitch himself into a better position. “S'good,” he said with his mouth full, but Steve was getting to be an expert on Bucky's lips and he understood him just fine. He gave him a pat on the belly, and curled up with his laptop. 

Bucky fell asleep for real soon after finishing the bowl of pudding, and Steve put in a few hours of distracted work, his eye constantly drifting over the edge of his computer to land on the sleeping hunk of man that was currently within arm's reach. Even asleep, Bucky looked full, brow knit, mouth open, double chin out in full force, one arm wrapped across his belly, though as the hours passed his expression smoothed out some. 

Steve's phone vibrated with a text, from Clint: “Don't wait up” with a thumbs-up emoji, and Steve rolled his eyes. It was only four-thirty, not even dark yet. He glanced over at Bucky, still slumbering sweetly, and licked his lips. Bucky would probably be hungry when he woke up, right? And Steve should probably be ready for that, right? 

He reached for his phone and pulled up the menu for a local Italian place, put in a delivery order for almost $100 worth of food: garlic bread, fried zucchini, mozzarella sticks, a caesar salad, fettuccine alfredo with steak, a sausage penne, a meat lasagna, and five chocolate cannoli. As a last-minute addition, he ordered a piece of chocolate cake, too.

Then he settled back in to finish up his work before the food came. 

About half an hour later he felt a warm hand on his arm, and looked up to find Bucky's sleepy face smiling at him. “Someone's knocking on the door,” he said. 

“Oh!” Steve said, putting his laptop on the coffee table and hurrying to let the delivery guy in. He had a scarf covering the bottom half of his face, and Steve was pretty sure he was talking but honestly, he didn't care – he just nodded and smiled and signed the receipt and took the two heavy plastic bags of food. He turned around to find Bucky looking at him with interest. “I got hungry,” Steve lied. “Ordered some dinner. Want some?”

“I could eat,” Bucky said, and pushed himself up off the couch, stretching with his hands on his back, his wonderful tummy sticking out tantalizingly, and Steve turned towards the kitchen to get plates and forks. When he got back, Bucky was opening cartons, eyes wide. “Smells good,” Bucky said. “What time is it, anyway?”

“Little after five,” Steve said. 

“I'm gonna go to the bathroom,” Bucky said, and pointed at Steve to keep his attention. “Want a beer? You have beer, right?”

“Yes and yes,” Steve said, grinning. He liked the thought of Bucky rummaging around in his fridge, making himself at home. He started dishing up the food, getting off on the contrast of his plate versus the plate he was making for Bucky – one had a tiny pile of penne and a mound of salad, the other was dominated by a huge swirl of creamy noodles and garnished with all eight of the mozzarella sticks, a hefty wedge of lasagna competing for space with the sausage penne. Three pieces of garlic bread topped it off. It was so heavy it almost bent Steve's wrist, the space pushed to its limit, and he set it down on the coffee table in front of the indent of Bucky's body. 

He hoped he wasn't overstepping boundaries, choosing Bucky's food for him like this, but he'd noticed that Bucky seemed to really like being ordered for, being fed. And sure enough, when Bucky came back in with the beers collected in his big hand, he lit up in a grin to see the plate waiting for him. 

“Yum,” he said, handing Steve both beers for him to open, and settled back down on the couch to get started. 

He ate his first plate cheerfully and quickly, twirling huge bites of pasta, munching mozzarella sticks two at a time, mopping up the excess sauce with the garlic bread. The second plate, just as heavily-laden, went slower, and by the end Bucky was showing the signs of fullness – sighing, belching, nudging his belly with careful fingers. Steve could see his fullness, too: his belly was visibly bloating back up again, getting even rounder. 

“Still some lasagna left,” Steve said. “Better finish off this penne, too.”

Bucky let Steve dump the remaining pasta on his plate, and didn't protest when Steve served him a few more pieces of garlic bread. He ate slowly, forking enormous mouthfuls past his lips and chewing tiredly, and when his plate was empty, Steve handed him the last piece of garlic bread to clean it with. He paused mid-bite, face screwing up in discomfort, hand going to his belly. Steve saw it jump, saw Bucky wince again. Again, the jump. 

“Hiccups,” Bucky said, when he saw Steve looking. “Pretty fucking full.” 

“Would another beer help?” Steve said, and Bucky nodded hopefully. 

When Steve came back in, Bucky was eating the last of the fried zucchini, pausing between bites to wince and hiccup. He took the beer gratefully and fell back against the couch cushions. “That was really good,” Bucky said. “Thanks Stevie.”

They put on a movie, and Steve laid out the five cannoli on a plate, for whenever Bucky wanted them. The opening credits hadn't even gone by when he felt Bucky stir at his side, and turned to see him struggling to sit up enough to lean over and get one. 

“Here,” Steve said, passing him one. 

“You're too far away,” Bucky complained, and Steve grinned, tucked himself into Bucky's side again. Bucky began munching a cannoli, and Steve put out a tentative hand and touched the hot drumlike surface of Bucky's stomach. He felt Bucky sigh, and a moment later he was licking ricotta filling off his fingers and reaching down to tug uncomfortably at his waistband. He nudged Steve, and Steve looked up. “Would you judge me if I undid my belt?” he said, looking sheepish. 

“No way,” Steve said. “Can I...? I won't try any funny business.”

Bucky hesitated, then nodded, and leaned back to get his belly out of the way – even so, Steve had to push the swollen undercurve out of the way to get at the buckle. He felt Bucky sigh in relief as he tugged the belt undone, and he frowned at the deep red lines it left. “Want me to do the button, too?” he asked. “Looks like these pants are a little tight.”

“I only got them last month,” Bucky said with dismay. “But yeah, would you? They're starting to hurt.”

Steve popped the button, and Bucky's stomach surged forward a little, settling comfortably. Soon, Steve thought, patting his pudge, this belly would start resting on Bucky's thighs. He stroked the purple stretchmark he'd seen earlier, and Bucky squirmed. 

“Tickles,” he said. “Ugh, don't make me laugh. Too full.”

Steve handed him another cannoli. 

By the time the movie was over, the cannoli were gone and Bucky had his hand almost down his pants, massaging his lower belly while Steve rubbed the top. “I can't tell if this is romantic or not,” Bucky said. 

“Definitely romantic,” Steve said. 

They made out again for a while, though Bucky was too full to move around much, and then Steve said, “Do you want to stay the night? Just to sleep. You don't even have to share my bed, you could stay out here.”

Bucky bit his lip, and for a second Steve was worried he'd been too forward too fast. Then Bucky said, “That sounds really nice.” Then he laughed. “But it's only, what? Seven?”

“Seven thirty,” Steve said. “Wanna watch another movie?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said. “If you'll keep making out with me a little.”

“I never wanna stop,” Steve said. 

By the time the next movie ended, Steve was sprawled on Bucky's lap, tracing circles on the dome of his belly. 

“Mmm,” said Bucky. “I like that.”

“You should probably have a snack before bed,” Steve said.

Bucky touched his stomach uncertainly. “Still feeling pretty tight in there.”

“Dinner was over three hours ago,” Steve argued. 

“But then there were those cannoli,” Bucky said weakly.

“C'mon,” Steve said, chucking him under his soft chin. “What do you say I tuck you into my bed and bring you a treat?”

“Okay,” Bucky said, and let himself be led by the hand down the hall. When they got to Steve's room, Bucky stood in the doorway for a moment, just looking around. “So this is your natural habitat,” he said. “Who did all these awesome paintings?”

“I did,” Steve said nervously, and Bucky's mouth dropped open.

“For real?”

“I majored in art,” Steve said defensively, but Bucky was already wandering through the room, looking at each painting in its turn. When he turned back, his face was awestruck. 

“You're outta control,” Bucky said.

“In a good way?”

“Oh, yeah.”

Steve grinned, and waved his hand with a flourish. “And there's the main attraction.”

Steve prided himself on his bed. It was a king-sized, box-springed, memory-foamed, down-comfortered, 500-thread-counted extravaganza, luxuriant and opulent in the way he let few things in his life be. Every day he woke up and thanked himself for blowing a year's worth of savings on it. 

And seeing Bucky's eyes go wide, seeing how he started to sit down on it all gingerly and then just fell backwards in a swoon of delight – it was among the happiest moments of Steve's life. 

He went over to flop down next to Bucky, reaching out to pat the bare chunk of belly that had been freed by the undone button, and they got caught up in kissing again for a while. 

“Okay,” Steve said, finally pulling away. “You get comfy however you want to you, and I'll be back in a bit.”

In the kitchen, he broke open the chocolate cake he'd saved from their dinner order. He put it in the biggest bowl he could find, and then microwaved a blend of hot fudge and peanut butter and poured it liberally on top. He piled on nearly a pint of cookies n cream ice cream before covering the whole thing in whipped cream, and then brought his concoction in to Bucky.

Bucky was in Steve's bed, propped up nearly horizontal amidst the pillows, covers pooled around his waist. He was wearing boxers and, to Steve's disappointment, his t-shirt, but he'd shucked his flannel and Steve would take whatever he could get. He had his hand up his t-shirt, kneading his bloated belly, but he took it away quickly when Steve came in. 

“Here you go,” Steve said, settling in beside him on top of the covers. “You comfortable?”

“This bed is like a cloud,” Bucky said, taking the bowl. “Ice cream? I'm gonna get your sheets all messed up.”

“Don't worry about it,” Steve said.

Bucky dug his spoon in, looking a bit daunted. “This is a lot, man. I don't know, I'm still feeling that dinner.”

“Eat however much you want,” Steve said. “You want me to...?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, pushing his belly into Steve's hand like a cat asking for pets, and Steve began to stroke it, wide circles with a bit of pressure, fingers pressing in here-and-there. It was amazing how tight it felt, how firmly bloated, and he thought he could even feel the addition of this final dessert puffing it up even more. He could feel it gurgling, too, as Bucky shoveled in the cake and ice cream and it struggled to accommodate the new load of sugar and fat, and he felt it heave as Bucky's breath grew more strained. 

He glanced up. “Feeling okay?”

“Ugh, just fucking full,” Bucky said, licking the spoon. “This is so good, though, damn. What is this, peanut butter?”

“Yeah, and fudge.”

“Really good.” He spooned up another bite, and Steve felt his belly vibrate with a belch.

“Does it hurt?” Steve asked, resuming his belly massage.

“Yeah,” Bucky said. “It's a weird hurt, though. I don't mind it. I mean, hell, I like it. I don't know why. It's really uncomfortable, everything's just too tight and kind of throbbing, but... I don't know, Steve. I guess I'm a freak.” He let his spoon fall still for a moment and met Steve's eyes. “Just to be clear... Um, you like this too, right?”

“Yes,” Steve said immediately. “One hundred percent. I liked you before you started packing on weight, but I am totally, completely all about what's happening here.”

“What is happening here?” Bucky said.

“I think we're dating now?” Steve said, and Bucky laughed, his belly jerking. 

“Ugh, oh, that hurts.”

“Are we?” Steve said.

“I sure fucking hope so,” Bucky said. “Now lemme finish this in peace.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GOOD GOD Y'ALL, I am sorry this took so damn long. I've had this chapter 90% written for months and months, but could not find a single moment to just finish the stupid thing. Amidst all the batshit evil fascist shit going on in the U.S. and abroad, I hope you enjoy the conclusion to this *extremely* plot-driven story about a handsome man eating huge amounts of food while another handsome man watches.
> 
> Thank you for reading!!! #resistwithkink lol

Within three weeks of their first date, Bucky's sweatpants – his sweatpants! – were straining over his ass so much that he couldn't sit comfortably in them, and he had two new little pink stretchmarks on the side of his belly and one arcing up from his navel. That wasn't the only sign he'd put on weight, though. Suddenly his thighs pressed together when he walked, his ass was beginning to dimple. He was louder walking around, thudding the floorboards more, and he'd noticed that he was out of breath after taking the single flight of stairs up from the laundry room. His sides had a real roll to them that extended almost all the way around his back, and his belly jutted out dramatically, heavy and always tender and impossible to suck in at all. His pecs had gotten chubby, and when he looked at himself straight in the mirror, not bending his neck at all, his double chin was clearly visible. 

“Bucky,” Natasha said. “Remember when you asked me what size pants you thought someone who'd gained a little weight should get?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, turning to look at her. They were in the kitchen, and Bucky was assembling a truly phenomenal pan of nachos for breakfast. 

“Ask me again.”

“Oh, ha, ha,” Bucky said. “I'm fully aware my pants are toast, Nat. Why do you think I'm wearing sweatpants?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Because you spend all your money eating out with your new boyfriend and can barely afford rent, much less those $70 jeans you love?”

“Uh, yeah.” Bucky said. “Pretty much.”

“I'm just saying, those nachos would taste a lot better if you had a little room to enjoy them.”

Bucky worked a thumb between his waistband and skin, feeling how much of a squeeze it was. “You're not wrong. Jesus. I'm getting kinda fat, huh?”

“Yeah, you are,” Nat said bluntly. “You feeling okay about it?”

He bit his lip. “Is it weird to say yes?”

“If you're being honest.”

“Yeah, I mean, I don't really mind,” Bucky said. “I like eating, and I don't want to _stop_ eating anytime soon, and, well, Steve doesn't mind either...”

“Understatement,” Nat snorted. “Speaking of, me and Clint are gonna stay at their place tonight, so this apartment's all yours if you want.”

“Cool,” Bucky said. “Steve's coming to hang soon, so I'll keep him here, get him outta your hair. It'll be a burden, but I'll take one for the team.”

“Appreciate it,” she said, and tossed him a salute. 

Steve showed up just as Bucky was finishing up his pan of nachos. He was hunched over the table, chasing a last bite of melted cheese and sour cream, his stomach warm and full, just the wrong side of comfortable. He looked up as Steve let himself in through the unlocked door, feeling his heart leap just at the sight of those black-rimmed glasses and that little face. 

“Good morning, handsome,” he signed. He was trying to implement some of the sign language he'd learned on the internet, though he wasn't sure how to modify most of it for one hand, so he tended to wing it. 

“Good morning,” Steve signed back, beaming – also one-handed, since his other was occupied with a big paper bag. “I brought donuts,” he said aloud.

“Shit,” Bucky said, leaning back, his full belly mounding up in front of him. “You should've told me, I just ate.”

“Too bad,” Steve said, coming over to give his tummy a fond pat, then leaned down to kiss him. “There's a new flavor at Dunkins.”

“What?” Bucky said, interest piqued. 

“Cookie Dough,” Steve said excitedly, opening up the box. “I got a few of them cause they looked awesome. Got some Boston Kreme, too, I know you love those, some jelly, a couple chocolate glazed, and a strawberry frosted for me.” He pulled an enormous styrofoam cup out of the bag. “Aaaand one of those Oreo hot chocolates you like.”

“Hell yeah,” Bucky said happily, reaching for the drink. He popped off the top so he could lick up the whipped cream, as he always did, and took an appreciative sip of the sweet, hot liquid. And, who was he kidding, he reached for a Cookie Dough donut, too. “Shit,” he said, around a mouthful. He swallowed. “This is really good.”

Steve leaned over to take a bite out of his hand, chewed thoughtfully, and shook his head. “Nothing beats the strawberry,” he said. “What'd you have for breakfast?”

“Nachos,” Bucky admitted. “Used the whole fucking bag of tortilla chips and a whole bag of shredded cheddar – otherwise I'd be all over these donuts.” He dunked his Cookie Dough in his hot chocolate, took a big bite and swallowed before asking, “So, what do you want to do with your day off?”

“I was thinking we could go to a museum, actually,” Steve said, looking a little shy. “There's an exhibit at the Whitney I've been wanting to see. I don't know if that sounds fun to you, or...”

“Sounds great,” Bucky said, and realized that it did, actually. He hadn't felt that telltale frantic pulse of anxiety about going out for some time, though he still couldn't really handle the subway. He polished off the last of his donut and slurped his hot chocolate, then absentmindedly took the Boston Kreme Steve offered him. These really were the best, he thought, biting into it. The chocolate, the custard... perfect. “Tell me about this exhibit,” he said.

He loved hearing Steve talk about art. Talk about anything, really, but he got a special light in his eye when he spoke about painting. And he had such an animated face, probably from years of speaking ASL – he changed expressions with almost every word, subtly acting out what he was saying, and Bucky couldn't get enough of it. 

He pushed the last bite of Boston Kreme into his mouth and let out a low belch, hidden with his hand. Steve didn't hear it of course, and kept talking. There were definite perks to having a Deaf boyfriend. He nodded at something Steve said, his stomach gurgling a little, and he gave it a shove with his hand to try and settle it. His skin still had that tight, itchy feeling, like his belly was pushing forward against it, and he tried to soothe it with a few well-placed scratches. The hot chocolate warmed his packed insides, and he took a long gulp. He raked his eyes over the box of donuts, gaze lingering on the other Boston Kreme, its chocolate frosting shining. 

“Here,” Steve said, noticing his look. “Have another donut, then we'll get going.”

“Steve, if I have another donut, I'm gonna need a little recovery time,” Bucky said, shifting uncomfortably. 

“Well, we're in no rush,” Steve said, and Bucky reached out for the Boston Kreme. 

He ate it slowly, savoring each bite, chasing it down with hot chocolate and feeling that painful, pleasurable throb in his gut that told him he'd hit his limit. He leaned back in his chair when he was done, sugared up and stuffed, and pressed into his belly with chocolate-glazed fingers. 

“Pretty full, huh,” Steve said.

“Very,” Bucky said, sighing, and then groaned as Steve picked up another Cookie Dough and brandished it at him. “Steve, you don't understand how big that pan of nachos was.”

“But look how big this belly is,” Steve said, stroking it lovingly. “You've only had three, that's not enough for you. I know you want it, honey, don't you?”

Bucky let Steve poke a bite into his mouth. It really was good. Gently, giving Bucky time to sip his hot chocolate, Steve fed him the donut bite by bite, and when it was done, he picked up a jelly donut and started feeding him that one. By that time Bucky was too full even to protest, and he just opened his mouth resignedly, pausing now and then to let out a soft burp. 

“Think you can make it an even half-dozen?” Steve said, raising another jelly. 

“I finished my hot chocolate,” Bucky said. “Need something to wash it down. Get me a glass of milk, babe?”

Steve scrambled to do his bidding, and Bucky took advantage of the reprieve, taking shallow sips of air and patting the side of belly. Even though he lived in this body every day, he was amazed at how round he was, how his gut had become the biggest, most noticeable part of him, pushing out in front of him and settling soft onto the tops of his thighs. The waistband of his too-tight sweats was almost unbearably painful, digging into his fleshy hips, but there was something satisfying about the tightness, too, something hot and dirty about how he could barely fit into his biggest clothes anymore. He let out a couple deep, loud belches, trying to make room for one last donut, and he did feel the pressure in his tummy lessen a bit. He scratched again at the tight spot above his belly button, probably the future home of another stretch mark, and Steve sat down beside him with a big cold glass of milk. 

Bucky took a long swig, and no sooner had the glass left his mouth than Steve was filling it with donut. It wasn't all that long before he'd eaten the sixth and drank all his milk, and he arched his back painfully, a little dazed. 

Steve scooted his chair closer and began rubbing Bucky's belly, digging his strong artist's fingers into all the tight, sore places, and Bucky closed his eyes, surrendered to the feeling of being completely stuffed, completely overindulged, completely taken care of.

“I know a great place near the museum for lunch,” Steve said, and Bucky hiccuped. 

:::

“Oh ho, he returns!” Tony greeted him when he plodded into the gym the following week, liberated in a brand-new pair of sweatpants. “Jesus, no offense, but you've really packed it on, huh? Turn around, lemme see that ass. Wow.”

“I haven't lifted in a while,” Bucky admitted. “Figured I should pick it back up, though, if I'm gonna be dragging this thing around.” He rested a hand on his belly. 

“How much weight have you put on, if you don't mind me asking?” Tony said, circling him. “Ugh, I could literally chew those glutes. And I'm not even gay. Much.”

“Uh, about sixty pounds, I think,” Bucky said, rubbing the back of his neck.

“You feeling it in your back?” Tony said sympathetically.

“Yeah, some,” Bucky said. “Lower back, especially.”

“Gotta put some muscle back under that chub,” Tony said. “Want me to spot you?”

“Please,” Bucky said. 

After their workout, Tony took Bucky to lunch, watched in jealous amazement as Bucky munched his way through breadsticks, two chicken parm subs and a peanut butter milkshake, then ordered a basket of chicken wings.

“I was wrong,” Bucky said, sucking his fingers clean of barbecue sauce. “It's more than sixty pounds. Almost 75.”

“But no diet,” Tony said.

“No,” Bucky said, stirring his milkshake. “Just wanna stay strong. I don't care if I'm... on the heavy side.”

“And I bet little Steviekins doesn't care either,” Tony said, raising an eyebrow. Bucky turned red. 

“Definitely not,” he said, scooting back in his chair and leaning forward a little, trying to give himself more room. “You gonna eat those fries?”

“All yours,” Tony said. 

He went straight to Steve's apartment afterwards, tired and sated in the back of an Uber, wincing as his full body was jostled by potholes, hand draped across his belly. He'd found himself resting his hand there more and more, an unconscious response to this new shelf of his, and it kind of embarrassed him whenever he caught himself doing it in public. But it seemed unnatural to sit with his arm at his side, big belly swollen out in front of him unacknowledged. He heaved himself out of the Uber and walked the ten steps through the fragrant April air to Steve's building, then trudged up the two flights of stairs, feeling every one of his new pounds. His belly was still firm but had started to move around some in response to his movements, quivering and pulling down at him as he hauled himself up the stairs. He was a little pink in the face by the time he knocked at Steve's door. 

Steve greeted him with a big smile, a big kiss, and a big plate of cheesecake squares. 

“I'm only having one,” Bucky warned him. “I just had lunch with Tony. Whoa, these are good.”

They ended up sitting at the kitchen table playing Scrabble and drinking beer, because what the hell was having a boyfriend for if you couldn't stay in on a Friday afternoon and play games? The plate of cheesecake squares sat temptingly between them, and Bucky couldn't help himself – he had one, he had two, he had three and four, and then he was losing track of whose turn it was in Scrabble and trying to stop hiccuping long enough to take a sip of beer. 

“You okay?” Steve said.

“Just full,” Bucky said, “like always.”

“You wanna take this party to the bedroom?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, thinking with pleasure of Steve's heavenly bed, and he crawled into it gratefully, propped himself up on Steve's pillows, his stomach weighing him down.

“Think I can balance this plate on here?” Steve said, trying to get the plate of cheesecake to stay on Bucky's belly, but it started sliding off. “Not quite. You should probably have another one of these.”

“You should probably rub this belly,” Bucky said. 

“Obviously,” Steve said. “Now eat, honey.”

Bucky fell asleep after his eighth cheesecake square, and woke up in a haze to find the windows dark. His stomach still felt bloated and tender but that was par for the course, and he dragged himself into a sitting position, groping for his phone to look at the time. He'd been asleep for about an hour and a half, and he yawned extravagantly, scratching his aching tummy. He'd gotten so fucking lazy dating Steve – it was a regular occurrence that he'd eat so much he had to sleep it off, sometimes multiple times a day. 

As if summoned by Bucky's thoughts, Steve himself peeked in the door. “Oh good,” he said. “You're awake. I was lonely.” He padded over to Bucky's side and curled up next to him, put his face up to be kissed. “How was your nap?”

“Good,” Bucky said, luxuriating in the feel of Steve's soft cheek under his hand. He whined a little when Steve pulled away, but Steve didn't notice.

“Hang on,” Steve said, and disappeared. He came back a moment later with a couple of beers, a huge plate, and the Scrabble box tucked under his arm. “I thought we could play another game in here,” he said. “Keep it cozy.”

“Cute,” Bucky said, smiling. 

The plate was absolutely piled with cheese and crackers, and Steve set it on the bed between them without comment, then handed Bucky a beer. Bucky took a long sip, enjoying the cold in comparison to his sleep-flushed body, then pushed down the blankets around his waist so he could roll the chilly bottle across his swollen stomach. It left damp tracks across his snug t-shirt, and he pressed it into the plump round curve below his belly button. He sighed, feeling his tummy rise and fall, and feeling the way his chubby pecs had started resting on it when he was sitting like this. 

“You okay?” Steve said, his fingers tracing one of the damp patches left by the bottle.

“Feeling kinda big,” Bucky said. 

“You're looking big,” Steve said. “Bigger, anyway. I think you've added some weight recently.”

“No shit,” Bucky said, trying to sit more upright so he could lean over and start setting up his Scrabble tiles. “I weighed myself at the gym today. Since we started dating, I've put on almost 20 pounds.”

“Oh my god,” Steve said, his eyes practically glazing. “Are you kidding? But we've only been dating for a month.”

“No shit,” Bucky said. Seeing Steve get worked up was getting him worked up a little, too. He was still bloated from that cheesecake but he reached for the plate and made himself a little cheese and cracker sandwich. “Come on, let's play.”

They played for about an hour, Bucky working his way through the giant plate of perfectly aged cheddar cheese and rosemary-parmesan crackers (fucking Steve), his stomach groaning audibly in protest every so often. He got some pretty painful hiccups right after he spelled “salty” and had to take a little break, Steve hovering anxiously with another beer while Bucky held onto his poor belly and gasped for air, but they subsided soon enough and the game resumed. For a while, anyway.

“Fuck,” Bucky panted, swallowing the last difficult chunk of cheese. He was bent over, arm wrapped around the throbbing ball of his stomach, and all his Scrabble concentration had gone out the window. All he could focus on was how much his tummy ached and how incredibly stuffed he was, his vision gone all hazy, and how his cock was responding to the awful pressure by creating some pressure of its own.

“Here, lie back,” Steve said with concern. “God, you look full. I can't believe how round you're getting, look at this. Twenty pounds... it really shows, I gotta say. No wonder you feel big.” 

Both his hands were focused on rubbing Bucky's swollen gut, kneading and pushing and scratching just the way Bucky liked, and he couldn't help but buck his hips a little, longing for friction for his semi-hard cock. Steve looked up, smirking, and slowly, slowly, he pushed up Bucky's t-shirt, the fabric dragging across all that stuffed-tight skin, and settled the hem in the chubby crease between his pecs and gut before he lowered his head and began to nibble the soft, wildly sensitive skin below Bucky's navel. Bucky groaned, arching his back, and Steve's teeth sought the drawstring of his sweats. He had to nose his way under the swell of Bucky's gut in order to get a good grip, but he managed to get an end of the string in his mouth and gently tugged, undoing the loose bow. Bucky's hand was clenching and unclenching on the sheets while Steve's own fingers tucked into the elastic waistband, and he peered up past the mound of Bucky's full belly to make eye contact. 

“C'mon baby,” Steve said. “Help me out a little. Up.”

Obligingly, Bucky made a good faith effort to hitch his hips up enough to let Steve start to work his sweats down his fat hips, but he was so full and so heavy and he thumped his ass back against the bed before Steve had finished. “I can't,” he panted. 

Steve delivered a gentle slap to the side of his gut. “So fucking lazy,” he said. “We'll just have to manage like this,” he added, and worked the waistband down enough in the front that Bucky's cock, achingly hard now, came free and bobbed up against his belly. Steve licked a long stripe up the underside of Bucky's cock before leaning forward to pull the head into his perfect mouth, his nose pressed against Bucky's gut. Bucky gasped and clenched his fist, pounding it helplessly against the mattress in pleasure, and Steve reached forward and tangled his free fingers with Bucky's. The other hand was busy stroking Bucky's shaft, following the movements of his hot mouth, and Bucky squeezed Steve's hand, telling him with touch how fucking good it felt, how much he loved this. He was used to talking dirty with his lovers, but he couldn't do that with Steve, and he'd come to relish how tactile their sex was, how he had to speak with his body when Steve couldn't see his mouth. 

Steve released Bucky's hand in favor of cupping his balls, and Bucky laced his fingers in Steve's hair, not to guide but just to grip, to touch. He was panting now, hardly able to catch his breath, still so incredibly full, and so turned-on and lost to sensation that his vision was going hazy around the edges. He couldn't see Steve's face over the top of his belly, and when had that happened? When had he gotten so fat he couldn't watch his boyfriend blowing him? God, he was letting himself get so big, eating and eating and eating, it was out of control, he didn't remember the last time he'd felt hungry, his belly always stuffed and sore and getting so fucking heavy, so round, putting on so much goddamn weight – 

“Steve,” he gasped, though he knew Steve couldn't hear him, and he tapped frantically on Steve's head, “Stevie, I'm gonna, I'm --”

Steve gave him one last, long suck and then Bucky was coming in a white-hot rush of pleasure, eyes slamming shut, body shaking uncontrollably, gasping and panting and moaning. He felt absolutely boneless when he finished, and could barely drag his eyes open again. 

But he did after a minute or so, because he wanted to see Steve – wanted to see the smirk Steve always got after he made Bucky come, a bratty little grin that Bucky couldn't get enough of. 

“How are you so fucking amazing, huh?” Bucky said. 

“I'm gonna sit on your face now,” Steve said, and it was Bucky's turn to grin.

:::

“C'mon, honey,” Steve coaxed. “There's only one piece left, it'd be silly to leave it.”

It was ten am on a Saturday a couple months later, and they'd just gotten out of bed. Sleepily, Bucky had worked his way through an entire key lime pie, plus several glasses of milk before he'd started to register fullness, and now he was dragging his feet about the last piece.

“My belly hurts,” Bucky said, scootching back in his seat and spreading his legs, leaning forward to let his tummy swell between them. He'd been doing that more lately, Steve had noticed. “It's so much sugar.”

“Maybe you need some salt to balance it out,” Steve said.

“Maybe,” Bucky agreed. 

Steve fried up a couple sausages and Bucky leaned back to begin nibbling on them, slouching down in the chair as if he couldn't be bothered to expend a single ounce of energy to keep himself upright. He was starting to really look fat, Steve thought. Not pudgy, not chubby, not 'big with a beer belly,' but fat. His belly was so swollen and round, soaring over the waistband of his too-tight jeans, and from the front it looked just as bloated but wide, too, curving out over his hips. He had a thick spare tire of love handles, new rolls creasing his back, and his delectable ass was dimpled and bounced a little when he walked. His thighs were doughy and his neck was pudgy, his softly doubled chin was getting softer every day, and his jeans – “ _New_ jeans,” Bucky had grumbled – were already snug enough that he had popped the button on them halfway through breakfast. 

Clint wandered into the kitchen, grabbed a box of cereal, a gallon of milk, and two bowls, and wandered back to his bedroom. Steve grinned a little, thinking how different Clint and Natasha's breakfast routine was from their own, and he went over to check on Bucky.

“Did the sausage help?” he asked, leaning down to kiss Bucky's chubby cheek before pulling away to see his mouth. 

“No,” Bucky said petulantly. “Now I'm even fuller.”

Steve pulled a chair close to Bucky's and reached for the piece of pie. “Just relax,” he said. “I'll feed it to you.”

Bucky was panting a little, Steve could see, his lips parted, struggling to breathe deeply but his belly was too full to expand much. He leaned back, rubbing the crest of his gut with strong back-and-forth motions, and nodded. Steve picked up the small pie plate and poked a bite through Bucky's parted lips, watched him chew valiantly.

“Put plate,” Bucky signed, mouth too full to talk, and tapped his belly. 

Steve set the plate down and took his hand away, and sure enough, it stayed easily where it was, rising and falling with Bucky's difficult breaths. “Damn,” Steve said, and picked up the plate again, stroking his hand over the firm, fat flesh where it had been. “Wonder how much you'd have to gain to be able to hold the whole pie tin.”

“Wonder how much pie I'd have to eat,” Bucky said. “God, I can't believe I've gotten so big. Can't see my dick anymore.”

“Luckily, I can,” Steve said, and Bucky wheezed helplessly.

“Stop, ow, god, stop making me laugh,” he said, and Steve pushed another bite of pie into his mouth. Bucky chewed it, still mumbling to himself – Steve caught the word 'fat,' and grinned.

“You know I'm 285 fucking pounds?” Bucky said, after he'd swallowed. 

“That's it?” Steve said, surprised, and Bucky looked at him in astonishment. “You look... you look bigger,” Steve said. 

“Steve, I was _190_ when you met me.” Bucky took a shallow breath. “I've put on 95 pounds in a year, and you say 'That's it'?”

“95,” Steve repeated, awed. “Well, when you put it like that...” 

He fed Bucky another bite of pie, then another, the number 95 ringing out in his head. When the pie was gone he replaced the fork with his mouth, though Bucky was too full to make out properly, kept losing his breath and turning his head to suck in air, and eventually Steve contented himself with nibbling on Bucky's chunky neck while Bucky sighed. 

They went to a movie that afternoon, and Steve watched Bucky lower himself into the seat, a little clumsy with just one hand for leverage, thumping heavily as he sat. His sides pressed up against the armrests, though he wasn't wedged in or anything; not yet. 95 pounds. Steve left him there to go wait in line at the concessions stand, and Bucky's eyebrows shot up when he saw the smorgasbord Steve brought back. He didn't comment, though, just put the comically large tub of extra-buttered popcorn on his lap and settled his extra-large Coke in the cupholder, then reached for the sack of wrapped hot dogs and began munching while they waited for the previews to start. He got through two of the six hot dogs and a sleeve of Reese's before the lights had even dimmed.

Between the screen, his closed-captioning device, and watching Bucky, Steve could barely keep track of the movie. It was Bucky who took most of his attention, and Steve watched out of the corner of his eye as Bucky shoveled handfuls of popcorn into his mouth, alternating chewing with swigs of his soda, passing hot dogs for Steve to unwrap and then demolishing them in a few neat bites. He finished a bag of Sour Patch Kids and a bag of Butterfinger Bites, and meanwhile the popcorn level slowly and steadily went down. By the time the lights came back up, Bucky was licking the last kernels from his fingers and rattling the remaining ice around his empty Coke cup. 

“Ice cream?” Steve suggested, 95 still singing through his brain. Because 95 was just 5 pounds away from an even hundred, and Steve was a perfectionist. 

“Okay,” said Bucky, and at the ice cream shop he let Steve order him a five-scoop banana split with all the fixings, plus a brownie on the side. It was so cute to watch him eat in public. At home he was mannerless, and merciless in the way he teased Steve, but out in the real world he ate neatly, only pausing every so often to fix Steve with a cheeky, knowing smile. Steve propped his chin on his hand and watched Bucky make his way through the gooey treat, wondering how he'd gotten so lucky. Bucky was in a snug black t-shirt that hugged his round belly and dimpled over his navel, his shoulders thick and broad and his arm huge with strength, and even sitting down his thighs were obviously muscled and chunky, his ass spreading across the seat, getting wider and fatter by the day. Steve wriggled in his chair, half-hard just from looking. 

Bucky finished the last bite and dragged a napkin over his mouth, then pushed away his empty dish and leaned back in his chair, settled his hand on his belly with eyes half-lidded and mouth curled in a smile. “Fuck, I'm full,” he said, thumb tapping on the swollen upper curve of his gut. “Might have to hang out here for a while.”

“You should have something to drink,” Steve said. “Gotta stay hydrated.”

“If you say so,” Bucky said, and Steve got him an extra-large root beer float, with whipped cream on top. “Jesus christ,” Bucky complained, but he started slurping away, wincing and belching behind his hand occasionally. He drank up the root beer first, then attacked the remaining ice cream sludge with a spoon and grim determination. Steve could see how full he was by the way he was starting to let the ice cream drip unchecked across his chin, his neatness put aside as he packed himself tight. 

It took everything in Steve's power not to reach over and rub his overworked belly, but this was about as public as they took their sex life... so far. Steve, for one, wouldn't have minded some exhibitionist experimentation, and he thought Bucky might not either, but he hadn't had the courage to broach the topic with him yet. For now, all he could do was sit and watch, biting his lip and longing to touch as Bucky finished his float and tried to soothe his packed stomach by himself, reaching over the mound of his gut to drag his hand from one side to the other, digging his fingers into the skin around his belly button, where Steve knew it got itchy as it stretched. 

“I know what you're trying to do, by the way,” Bucky said. 

“What?” Steve said, genuinely perplexed.

“Ninety-five pounds,” Bucky said, mouth moving in a slow drawl, and immediately Steve flushed bright and hot. “Not exactly the nice round number your obsessive little brain would prefer, am I right?”

“I --” Steve stuttered. 

“You want to make it an even hundred,” Bucky said. 

“I --” Steve said again. “I mean --”

Bucky let out a heavy sigh, wincing as his belly heaved and relaxed, and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Steve couldn't take the lack of touch anymore, and reached out to stroke the chunky swell of hip that Bucky's missing arm gave him perfect access to. Bucky's skin was so warm underneath his t-shirt, the perfect combination of soft and firm, and Steve couldn't help but give Bucky a little tickle, just enough to see him squirm, big belly quivering. 

“Buck,” Steve said, scooting his chair closer and gently palming the fat undercurve of Bucky's tummy, hefting it a little, public be damned. “I think you're perfect exactly how you are right now. And I thought you were perfect ninety-five pounds ago. Sure, yeah, I'd love to get you up to a hundred – but you could lose a hundred, gain a hundred, and I'd still want you.” He put a hand up to Bucky's chubby chin, forced Bucky to turn and look him in the eye. Bucky was blushing a rosy pink, his eyes wide, his mouth parted a little. “I'd still love you.”

He could feel Bucky leaning towards him helplessly, and he leaned up to meet his lips, taking his mouth in a kiss just as soft and firm and generous as Bucky himself. His eyes fluttered closed despite himself, and the ice cream shop disappeared around him, nothing but a soft watercolor wash of ambient hum through his hearing aids, and Bucky: Bucky's beautiful mouth, his stubble scraping Steve's fingers as he cupped Bucky's face, his eyelashes brushing Steve's cheekbone. After a long moment, they broke apart, Steve's hand sliding over the swell of Bucky's pudgy chest and down the dome of his belly, which was rising and falling rapidly as Bucky tried to catch his breath. 

Bucky's mouth moved, close enough that Steve could even hear the words as they left his lips: “I love you too, you punk.”

Steve felt himself grinning in pure happiness, a grin that only got wider as Bucky added, “But don't think I'm fooled by all that sappy bullshit. We both know I'm gonna add those extra five pounds sooner rather than later.”

“Let's be honest,” Steve said, his grin turning wicked. “It's probably gonna be a little more than five pounds.”

Bucky looked down at himself ruefully, patting the side of his gut and then smoothing his t-shirt over the swollen curve of his front, almost fondly, like he was stroking a pet. 

“Yeah,” he said, thumb tracing soft circles around his stretched-out belly button. “After all, Trump's still got three more years.”


End file.
